Intelligence Complex
by Klyntaliah
Summary: SHIELD teams up with the CIA to track down a terrorist, creating drama, angst, and tension between the operatives. Clintasha crossover with Vince Flynn's novel, American Assassin. T for some language and sensuality. Features divorced!Clint. (There is a good amount of action/combat/excitement here, but honestly, it's basically a soap opera with secret agents.)
1. MISTAKE

**IMPORTANT NOTE: This fic is based on the NOVEL American Assassin, NOT the film. **This is important because a) my characterization is bound to be different from the movie, and b) **Kennedy's hair is red in the book ,** which ends up being an important plot point.

I actually wrote this a few years ago, before the movie came out. A lot of it's crap & I was going to rewrite it, but I'm heading off to college & was afraid it'd be ages before I could. So forgive the crappy parts & I hope you enjoy the good parts!

* * *

"Of course, this horror show goes down on a moonless night," Natasha Romanoff grumbled.

She was stationed in the lee of a derelict livestock barn, peering blindly into the oppressive darkness that blanketed the rural landscape. The night was muggy and languid; not a breeze stirred at this unreasonable hour. The only signs of life on the desolate property were the chirping of crickets and the occasional call of a nocturnal creature.

Barton's familiar chuckle sounded in her ear. "Well, we've had worse," he said. "Remember that time in Leipzig—golf ball-sized hail?"

Romanoff groaned at the memory Barton laughed again. "Don't remind me. Still, at least we could see the target." She lifted her damp hair off the back of her neck and exhaled. "Right now, I could deal with some hail if it meant we'd be out of this heat."

"Can't be long now," Barton said hopefully.

Romanoff leaned back against the crumbling brick wall. "You really think Tarif's gonna show?"

"Well, he could've planted bad intel again," Barton replied. "Still, you tail somebody long enough, you're bound to run into 'em at some point."

"No sign of him, though?"

"Not from where I'm standing."

Romanoff squinted at the roof of the deserted farmhouse where he was positioned. "And you can actually see the ground from up there."

"Thanks to the heat-vision goggles, yes."

Romanoff shot him a peevish scowl he couldn't see. "I still think I should be the one using those. I'm the one who'll be engaging him."

"Nat, a sniper can't do his job without a visual," Barton said in a falsely scandalized tone. "Bring your own goggles next time."

Romanoff rolled her eyes. "Barton, even _you_ didn't bring any. McLane probably left those in the van after San Quentin."

"And as a wise man once said, finders keepers. Plus, I need them for surveillance."

Romanoff rolled her eyes and flicked her middle finger at him. "Hey, Barton. Surveil _this."_

"Ooh, genius comeback," he teased, an impudent smile in his voice.

Romanoff snorted and pushed off the wall. "Hey, how much longer do we need to stick around this hellhole?"

"Well, if our target doesn't show within the next hour, I say we call it quits."

"Copy that," Romanoff agreed, starting around the side of the barn. "I'm gonna circle around once more."

She moved silently through the long, soft grass, staying close to the sturdy wall. Not a breeze or creature stirred in the darkness, and she listened intently for the slightest noise. Normally, her limited vision would have given her a sense of vulnerability, as she had only the vaguest idea of her surroundings. Instead, she felt only the familiar sense of security that she always felt when her partner was near.

She had reached the opposite end of the building when Barton's voice sounded through her comm, suddenly tense and professional.

"Widow! I've got a reading. We have a live one, your eight."

Romanoff whirled, shifting immediately into recon mode. "How far out," she murmured, her eyes flickering across the silent yard.

"About twenty yards. He's over by the smokehouse, facing me."

"Has he made me yet?"

"Unsure. Suggest you circle around and attack from behind."

The pair maintained radio silence as Romanoff traced a wide circumference around the smokehouse. Her footsteps were quick and noiseless on the springy grass, and within seconds, she was coming up on the small building from behind.

Romanoff's eyes strained to see movement. "I need details," she whispered, slowing her steps as she approached.

"He's crouched on the south side, front corner. I could try for a hit, but he's far enough back that the wall blocks him from my range; we got a better shot on the ground. Remember, we're taking him in, not down, so don't kill him if you can help it."

"Roger."

Romanoff reached the building. Stealthily, she edged along the wall until she knew she must be within a few feet of her target.

Staring through the dark, she was able to distinguish the faint shape of a man, crouching down near the front of the building.

Romanoff leapt forward and dealt a perfect knockout punch to the back of his skull.

At least, it _would_ have been a perfect knockout punch. Had Tarif not turned his head at the last possible second.

Rather than meeting the back of his head, Romanoff's fist smacked into the side of his face. This succeeded in snapping Tarif's head around and likely causing considerable pain, but it failed to knock him unconscious.

Tarif's leg swept swiftly around and knocked her feet from under her, landing her flat on her back as he rolled to a standing position beside her. Instantly, Romanoff flipped back to her feet and attempted another knockout blow, but Tarif deflected her kick and went for a hit of his own. Romanoff blocked his punch and tried for one herself, but he grasped her wrist and got her in a joint-lock, jerking her arm toward the ground. Romanoff used the momentum from his pull to swing her legs into a cartwheel; her thighs closed around his neck in midair and they both tumbled to the ground.

Tarif was flat on his back, struggling. Romanoff's thighs were clamped firmly around his throat, and she had a tight grip on his right arm. Romanoff heard him cursing breathlessly, and she stopped short—he was cursing in _English._

Her hesitation was all Tarif needed. All at once, he had overturned the hold and was sitting on top of her, using his knees to pin her arms to her sides. He flexed her hands back against his legs to keep her from slipping them free, and his grip was like iron.

"I'm sorry about this," he began cryptically, and then there was a _whiz_ and a _thunk._ Tarif froze. Then he pitched forward and landed facedown on top of Romanoff.

Barton came jogging up as Romanoff rolled Tarif's body off of her. "Alright?" he asked as she got to her feet, brushing herself off.

"Fine. Knockout arrow?"

"Tranquilizer," he replied. "Though I'd mix it up a little." She heard him approach the body and pull the slim dart out of the man's back. "Well, I guess this is it!" he said more cheerfully. "We finally got him, Nat—the guy who's been bugging us for the past month. You ready for this?" She could hear him fumbling with his utility belt. "Natasha Romanoff, meet Jehu Tarif."

Barton's penlight clicked on. The pale orb of light was an oasis to Romanoff's weary eyes after straining in the dark for so long. The glow shone faintly back onto Barton's gleeful face as he held the light close to Tarif's face. His smile vanished and his eyes widened as he stared down at Tarif's motionless form.

"Nat."

Romanoff stepped forward and looked down at Tarif. Her heart jolted.

A head full of thick, black hair. An attractive, chiseled face. A strong jawline and a light dusting of facial hair to set off the pleasant, rugged appearance.

"Nat, this isn't him," Barton said in a hushed tone. "This isn't our guy."

Romanoff looked up at Barton's white face. He stared back at her, the glow of the penlight reflecting in his shocked eyes.

This had never happened before.

* * *

So like I was saying above, I was 15 when I wrote this, so while there is some here that I like, there is also a lot that is horribly cringey. I think this is one of the stronger chapters, but prepare to hear me judging some of my past writing choices in later chapters.

If there's anything here you don't like, don't hesitate to voice criticism! I feel I've grown as an author since I wrote this, so I'm curious to hear your guys' thoughts on what I did badly vs what I did well. :)


	2. CONTACT

Romanoff stared down at the mystery man in the bluish light. She studied his face, analyzing every feature, but she didn't recognize him.

"I don't believe this." Barton sounded stunned. "It's not Tarif. We got the wrong guy."

At his words, an alarm went off in the back of Romanoff's mind, and she whipped her head around, struggling to see through the dark. "Then where's Tarif?"

"He must have left a false trail again," Barton groaned. "Coulson's gonna kill us. We took down a civilian."

Romanoff frowned. "I'm not so sure he's a civilian."

Barton quickly looked up at her. "What makes you say that?"

"His fighting style. He's good," Romanoff said simply.

"He couldn't just be some martial arts guru?" Barton persisted anxiously.

She shook her head. "I don't think so. He's obviously highly trained in combat. Military, I'd say; maybe Special Forces?" She glanced down at the man in admiration, her mind replaying bits of their brief fight. "Whatever the case, he's definitely a professional."

Barton exhaled, his shoulders sagging with relief. "Not as bad as I thought, then," he said.

There was a brief silence.

"So… what now?" Barton wondered aloud.

Romanoff crossed her arms. "I think we should get back to the van and contact location is classified; the odds of someone stumbling across it by chance are not huge. He's probably involved with Tarif somehow, and Coulson may want to question him."

Barton nodded in agreement. He slung the unconscious man over his shoulder and they started towards their vehicle.

They had parked a fair distance away to decrease the risk of being spotted, and it was a long, silent walk through several fields to reach the SHIELD van. Romanoff spent the trip listening and gazing into the impenetrable darkness, keeping on the lookout for Tarif.

They reached the van within ten minutes. Barton dumped the stranger in the back, then circled to the front to switch on the air conditioning. He joined Romanoff in the back and began fiddling with the radio dials, trying to reach SHIELD.

In the meantime, Romanoff worked on securing the prisoner with duct tape. A quick search through his clothing revealed a pistol, two spare magazines, and a knife, further confirming in her mind that he was a professional.

By the time she finished, Barton had made contact with the SHIELD communications center.

"Delta to SHIELD, how do you read?" he was saying into the microphone as Romanoff sat down next to him.

"SHIELD reads you loud and clear."

"We need to speak to the director."

There was a short silence. Then Coulson's voice crackled over the line.

"STRIKE Team: Delta?"

"Director." Barton glanced at their prisoner. "We have a situation."

A pause. "You still in New Rochelle, Delta?"

"We are," Romanoff spoke up, leaning towards the transmitter. "We're on that high-security target. You know the one."

"Yes, I know the one. What's the problem?"

Barton glanced at Romanoff.

"The target showed up at the location, and we thought we took him down," he said cautiously. "Turns out it wasn't him."

There was a long silence. Romanoff exchanged glances with Barton.

"It wasn't him," Coulson repeated. "What do you mean by that?"

Romanoff yanked the transmitter impatiently towards her. "It wasn't him, dammit," she said. "We'll give you the details in person—we attacked the wrong guy."

"The wrong guy?" Coulson sounded worried. "Who is he?"

"We don't know, sir," Barton said. "No identification."

"Can I get a description?"

Romanoff leaned forward. "Caucasian, dark hair, late twenties to early thirties. Six-two or six-three, good-looking, and I'd say American is a safe bet."

Barton shot her an amused glance. "Good-looking?" he repeated in an undertone.

Romanoff shrugged, smirking. "He asked for a full description. Perjury is a criminal offense, Barton."

Barto snorted and turned back to the radio.

"Is the subject a civilian?" Coulson asked.

"Unsure, but I don't think so," Romanoff said. "I think he's had military training. Might be Special Forces."

"But you were able to take him down."

"Yes, sir."

"He's still breathing though, right?"

"He is."

There was another long pause. Barton and Romanoff locked eyes over the radio transmitter.

"Well, this is an unusual situation," Coulson said. "Still, if he showed up in New Rochelle, he may be mixed up with our target. I'll run the description you gave through the database, see what comes up."

"Yes, sir," Barton said. He paused, glancing at the stranger. "What about the subject?"

Romanoff looked at the mystery man, watching him pensively until Coulson replied.

"Bring him in."

* * *

This chapter is pretty short and kind of unnecessary, but it has a few good/humorous bits of dialogue that redeem it in my eyes. What do you guys think? :)


	3. CAPTIVE

Empty spaces.

Under each arm, at each hip, in his left boot. No weapons.

Pain.

Agony in his cheekbone, soreness in his neck, smarting at his wrists.

He was lying on his back on a hard cot. The room was cool and still. The only noise was the faint whisper of someone breathing nearby.

Jehu Tarif… New Rochelle… darkness… a fist pounding his face… a woman… a thigh hold… a mistake… panic…

He opened his eyes.

A gray, windowless room. Nothing anomalous.

He turned his head.

A moderately-built man sat facing him in an observation chair. He was middle-aged and unarmed. He wore a business suit and a lanyard, suggesting he was a person of authority. Director, perhaps? He was smiling languidly as he leaned back in his seat, looking relaxed.

The observation area opened out of the containment section, and there appeared to be free passage between the spaces. But there would be an unseen barrier, a high-tech system for observation and communication.

This technology, as well as the make of his observer's suit, told him that he was in an American intelligence base.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot.

"What is it… NRO?" he guessed. "NSA? FBI?"

The man chuckled. "FBI? Really? I'm flattered." He grew serious. "But I'm the one who gets to ask the questions right now, not you. Who are you?"

"Mitch Rapp, Special Operations, one-two-nine-five."

The director gave an ironic smile. "Name, rank, serial number, huh?"

There was a short pause. Rapp stood and stepped towards the divider.

"Sir, I'm afraid there's been a mistake," he said. "It's understandable that you don't trust me, but I'm a specialized operative with the CIA."

The director nodded. "Yes. It is understandable," he agreed. "We received a report of a terrorist at a classified location. Guess who showed up at that classified location."

"So you think I'm an accomplice," Rapp guessed.

The director raised his eyebrows.

Rapp squared his shoulders. "I was there for the same reason your people were. I have orders to take out Jehu Tarif."

The director nodded again, smiling blandly. "Thought you might say that."

Rapp folded his arms. "If you don't believe me, you're welcome to call my handler."

The director rose and took a step forward. "If you were really there to take out Tarif, why'd you try to take out one of my agents?"

"Your agent attacked me, it was self-defense."

"Really? 'Cause from what I heard, you jumped her at the first opportunity."

Rapp shook his head. "Let me explain. I was informed that Tarif's location was clandestine. When your agent attacked, I at first assumed she was him. When I realized she wasn't, she had me in a thigh hold, and I couldn't get enough breath to tell her. So yes, I did jump her at the first opportunity, but only so I could explain things to her."

"Explain things to her? So you attacked her?" the director said dubiously. "If that was really what you wanted, you could've stopped fighting her so she would realize you weren't a threat."

"I didn't know whether your agent had a kill order," Rapp replied. "For all I knew, I was fighting for my life."

The director studied him critically. Rapp could practically see his mind considering the facts, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth.

The director returned to the observation chair and sat. "Your story makes sense, but you know I can't clear you yet," he said. "You could be a spy for Tarif who was planted at the location with an elaborate story."

Rapp nodded. "I understand, sir."

"I'll have to check with your superiors," the director continued. "You said CIA, right?"

"Langley," Rapp confirmed. "My handler's name is Irene Kennedy. Or you can ask for Thomas Stansfield, the director. He can vouch for me."

The other man stood. "I'll have him come down here," he said.

He left.

* * *

I'm pretty sure this is the shortest chapter. Even though not a lot happens here, I actually like this one - it gives insight into how Rapp's brain works. Also, I just love Coulson. He remains one of my favorite characters to write, and I flatter myself that I did him justice in this scene


	4. IDENTIFICATION

Coulson let the containment unit door close behind him and the lock clicked shut. He started down the hallway, and Barton fell into step behind him.

"Well?"

"He claims to be with the CIA," Coulson said. "Says his name's Mitch Rapp and he has a kill order on Tarif."

"And you don't believe him?" Barton asked as they rounded a corner.

"'M not sure," Coulson admitted. "His story adds up, but he could be a plant. I'm going to contact the CIA, have someone come down and ID him. He mentioned the director—Thomas Stansfield. I've met him before."

"Hm." Barton nodded. "Well, I got the ballistics report on his weapon."

"Yes?"

"Beretta, nine millimeters. That fits the American profile," Barton said.

They had reached the elevators, and Coulson pressed the button.

"Well, things are looking good for him, but we won't know anything for sure until Stansfield comes in," he said.

"Any idea when that'll be?"

"Not yet. Why?"

Barton grinned and rocked back on his heels. "Well, Nat and I have a bet on whether or not this guy is who he says he is."

The elevator opened and Coulson stepped in, amused.

"I'm hoping to have him here within the week," he said, and Barton nodded. "Until then, all we can do is wait."

 **.** **.** **.** **.** **.**

Coulson stood with his hands clasped, watching the roaring quinjet spiral down through the open hatch. The breeze from the propellers ruffled his hair as the jet settled on the tarmac, and the engine died. A moment later, the back hatch opened.

Two SHIELD agents stepped out of the aircraft, followed closely by Thomas Stansfield. As usual, he was dressed professionally in a gray business suit, and his sharp features possessed a slight anomaly of interest which was typically absent in his serious expression.

Beside him walked a young woman whom Coulson didn't recognize. She wore a dark pantsuit, and her red hair was tied back from her face.

The two SHIELD agents stepped aside respectfully as the visitors stopped in front of Coulson.

"Director Stansfield," Coulson greeted. "It's been a while." He extended his hand.

"Director Coulson." Stansfield shook his hand, then gestured to the woman at his side. "Dr. Irene Kennedy, director of our Counterterrorism Center."

The woman leaned forward to shake his hand, her mouth quirking into a guarded but genuine smile. "Nice to meet you."

The group started towards the door that led out of the hangar, Coulson leading.

"So there's a situation involving one of my agents?" Stansfield prompted, quickening his steps to walk alongside Coulson

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Coulson replied. "Three days ago, two of my agents were tracking an international threat and they mistakenly took down an individual who claims to be one of yours. He says his name's Mitch Rapp and that he's tracking the same target we are. His story held water, but we weren't sure he wasn't a plant, so we thought we'd better have someone verify his identity. He's down in our containment unit, if you'd like to follow me there."

They moved through the halls until they reached the containment unit door. Coulson passed his lanyard under the scanner. The light flashed green, and he opened the door.

They walked down a short flight of stairs into the observation area. A pale, solid screen blocked the prisoner from view. Coulson moved to the tablet that sat next to the observation chair and tapped a button. Transparency slid across the screen.

The cell's inhabitant looked up, and his eyes flicked from Stansfield to Kennedy.

Coulson turned to Stansfield. "Well?"

Stansfield exhaled and nodded. "That's him."

Coulson tapped another button and the barrier dissolved. Rapp stepped out of the cell and nodded at Stansfield. "Director."

Coulson took a step forward. "Agent Rapp, I'm Director Coulson." He gestured toward the cell. "Sorry about all that, but we couldn't take any chances. Welcome to SHIELD." He extended his hand.

Rapp shook it. "Thank you, Director. I understand." He turned to greet Kennedy, and Coulson addressed Stansfield.

"Thank you for doing this. Ordinarily, I'd've had him ID'd remotely, but I didn't want to risk a security compromise. You know how that is."

Stansfield nodded. "I do."

"I have to confess, though, my reasons for asking you to come here were twofold," Coulson went on.

Stansfield raised his eyebrows.

"I knew if Rapp was telling the truth, you must have some pretty sophisticated intel on this guy," Coulson said. "Two of my best agents have been tracking him for weeks without success. They were able to take out your operative, though, so I'd like to make an offer. What do you think about working together on this one? You share your intel, and we'll share our assets so we can take down Tarif together."

Stansfield frowned and rubbed his chin. "It's a tempting offer," he admitted. "It would be great to have some help on this. We've been tracking Tarif for months."

Coulson nodded, waiting.

"I'll talk to Kennedy about it," Stansfield said finally.

"That's fine, take as long as you like," Coulson said. "Just—don't take too long, 'cause intel says Tarif makes his next move in three days. Just saying."

"Alright."

"In the meantime, we'd be more than happy to board you here," Coulson said. "We have rooms here, and I can send someone back to Virginia to bring back anything you need."

Stansfield nodded. "Thank you."

* * *

Another chapter with little action. Don't worry! Things start to pick up in the next few chapters, especially chapter 6.

Also, I'm going to reiterate here that Kennedy's hair is red in the book. In the movie she's played by a black woman, and I don't want anyone to think I'm whitewashing her character. Again, I wrote this before the film came out, and the red hair is important later on.


	5. INTRODUCTIONS

"Uh, 'scuse me?"

Kennedy looked up. Standing in the doorway of the small conference room was a young man. He was blue-eyed and sandy-haired, and he shuffled his feet rather awkwardly.

"Yes?"

The man glanced up and down the hallway. "Uh… is this the room where we're supposed to have that meeting with the Central Intelligence dudes?"

Kennedy smiled and rested her palms on the conference table. "Yes, this is the one. I'm Irene Kennedy, one of the Central Intelligence dudes." She held out her hand.

"Oh!" The man let out an embarrassed chuckle and hastened forward to shake her hand across the table, smiling lopsidedly. "I'm Clint Barton, one of the SHIELD dudes."

Kennedy nodded. "Nice to meet you."

Barton slid into the seat across from Kennedy and threw his arms over the low back of the chair. "So what do you do at the CIA?"

Kennedy resumed packing documents into folders. "I'm director of the Counterterrorism Center, and Rapp's handler."

"Rapp? Oh, the guy we brought in."

"Right." Kennedy paused and glanced at him. "I have to say, I'm pretty impressed that you were able to do that. I've seen Rapp in the field before. He's good. It says a lot that you could take him down."

Barton smiled. "Thanks, but honestly, it was mostly my partner. All I did was hit him with a tranq dart, she did all the work."

"She must be pretty good, then," Kennedy said.

Barton stared blankly into space, a smile playing at his lips. "Yeah, she's something else."

Clued by his tone and expression, Kennedy wondered whether there was something deeper than partnership between the two of them. Deeming this an inappropriate question to ask a man she'd just met, she instead asked, "So, how long have you been working here at SHIELD?"

Barton blinked. "What? Oh. Um, pretty much my whole adult life. Coulson recruited me out of high school, and I've been here ever since. SHIELD's my home now. Although technically I'm from Iowa."

Kennedy raised her eyebrows. "Iowa, really. That's where my husband grew up," she said, almost without thinking.

Barton's eyes flicked toward her bare left hand. His brow creased slightly in confusion, but he didn't comment.

Kennedy rubbed thoughtfully at the spot where her wedding ring used to sit. "Not something I wanted a daily, twelve-carat reminder of," she said by way of explanation. And then, "It's hard, I think, to maintain healthy relationships in our line of work."

She was a bit surprised that she was already being so open with someone she had just met. There was something in Barton's frank, easy manner that made it feel natural to be honest with him.

"For sure," Barton agreed, sitting forward and clasping his hands on the table. "It gets hard to find time for each other. And you have to see each other a lot to make it work."

"Yes, I think that's the problem," Kennedy said. "I just don't see enough of him these days."

Barton nodded sympathetically. There was a short silence.

Kennedy chuckled a bit self-consciously. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be burdening you with my problems. Especially since we just met."

Barton shook his head. "Don't apologize," he said. "I went through something similar a few years back. I know how tough it can be."

Kennedy smiled slightly. "You know, they say this sort of thing is supposed to make for a stronger marriage in the end."

Barton gave an ironic half-smile. "For some people, maybe. For me, it made for a divorce in the end."

Kennedy froze, embarrassed. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

Barton waved a hand dismissively. "Eh, don't worry about it. I'm over being upset about it." He sat back in his chair. "Anyway. How long have _you_ been in intelligence?" he asked more cheerfully.

Kennedy relaxed, grateful for the subject change. "Well, in a way, I grew up in the business," she explained. "My father worked for the CIA before me, and I spent my childhood moving between diplomatic posts in the Middle East. My family tended to live in places where Americans are not always welcome, so I was taught to be aware of my surroundings from a young age." She shrugged. "I was already learning skills that would benefit a person working in Central Intelligence. After I finished school, it seemed the obvious thing to do."

Barton nodded thoughtfully.

Someone walked into the conference room and Kennedy looked up. It was a young woman, whose hair was a few shades lighter than her own. Her dangerous eyes flashed from Kennedy's face to the back of Barton's head.

Barton twisted in his seat. When his gaze landed on the woman, Kennedy immediately became convinced of two things.

One, this was his partner.

Two, there was definitely something deeper than partnership there.

At least, on his side. The woman was harder to read. But when Barton saw her, something seemed to click on inside him that hadn't been there before. There was a certain quality of energy emanating from him that was almost tangible—it was like he hadn't truly been alive until she walked into the room. And Kennedy sensed that, somehow, she'd never _really_ met Clint Barton or had a conversation with him. That had been a replica, a forgery of some kind. And now she was seeing the real one for the first time.

"Hey, Nat," Barton drawled. "Nice of you to drop by."

'Nat' leaned her hands on the back of Barton's chair and rolled her eyes. "This meeting is a mandatory Level Ten. I'm not 'dropping by', I'm following orders."

Barton gasped, feigning hurt. "So you didn't just come here to see me?" he teased, dropping his head back to look at her.

She smirked down at him. "Believe me, I tried to get out of it. But like I said. Mandatory briefing. Looks like we're stuck with each other for the next quarter-hour."

Barton grinned. "Life sure sucks, huh?"

"Life, sure, sucks," Nat enunciated. Then she glanced at Kennedy again, and Barton sat up.

"Oh! My bad. Nat, this is Irene Kennedy. She's with the CIA. Ms. Kennedy, Natasha Romanoff."

The two women shook hands over Barton's head.

"You must be the woman who took down Rapp," Kennedy said.

"That's what they call me," Romanoff deadpanned. Kennedy laughed.

Romanoff slipped around Barton's chair to the corner of the table. She leaned on her elbows and started speaking to him in low tones. Kennedy was too busy organizing her files to feel excluded from the conversation of two people she barely knew. But she watched Barton's face, and the way his eyes trailed across Romanoff's features as she talked was further proof of what she already knew to be true.

Clint Barton was in love.

Whether or not he yet knew it himself remained to be seen.

* * *

Overall I like this, although bits of it feel just slightly out-of-character to me. I was still discovering who Clint and Natasha were when I wrote this, in fact I still am - writing these characters is always a learning process, so naturally there are ways in which how I view them has adjusted over time. But again, I think it's good overall - what do you guys think?


	6. BRIEFING

"When's this thing supposed to start, anyway?" Barton asked.

Romanoff glanced at the clock. "Five minutes ago."

Barton grunted. "Not like Coulson to be behind schedule. Stansfield must be keeping him."

At that moment, Mitch Rapp strode into the conference room. His dark eyes swept over the SHIELD agents and alighted on Kennedy. He approached her and began speaking quietly to her. She nodded seriously, studying his face as she listened.

Romanoff turned to Barton. "You know, you never did cough up about him."

"Who?"

Romanoff arched her eyebrows and tipped her head toward Rapp.

Barton glanced at Rapp. He grinned.

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"You're full of crap, Barton," Romanoff said primly. "You bet me twenty bucks he wasn't CIA. Who's laughing now, hotshot?"

"Know what I think?" Barton opened his eyes wide in feigned innocence. "You had a bet with a guy who looked exactly like me."

Romanoff snorted. "Alright, pretty boy. Fork over."

Barton groaned, digging through his pockets. "Jesus, woman, you're killing me!" he complained. He slapped a twenty on the table, and she pocketed it smugly.

"Oh—Barton, Romanoff," Kennedy said abruptly. She and Rapp had been deep in conversation until that point and had apparently missed the exchange. "Have you met Rapp yet?"

"Now that you mention it, no, not officially," Barton said as he and Romanoff stood. He held out his hand. "Clint Barton. Good to meet you."

Rapp shook his hand. "Mitch Rapp." He turned to Romanoff. "And you are?"

"Natasha Romanoff."

Coulson and Stansfield entered the room as Rapp and Romanoff shook hands.

"Well, I think we're ready to get started here," Coulson announced. Stansfield closed the door and made his way to the head of the table while the others took their seats.

Romanoff circled the table and slid into the end seat, a few chairs down from Kennedy. She and Barton habitually chose opposite sides so that they could surreptitiously make faces at each other when meetings grew tedious. Rapp pulled up the chair at the end of the table closest to her.

"I'd like to start by apologizing for our tardiness," Stansfield said. "In light of that, I'll try to keep this conference as brief as possible." He crossed his arms. "First of all, I want to officially announce that CIA will be working with SHIELD on this case. Jehu Tarif has proved thus far to be too elusive a target for CIA alone, but with our intel and SHIELD's resources, I'm confident we'll be successful in apprehending him.

"According to our intel, Tarif makes his first move tomorrow evening. Now, as you all know, one of Tarif's common strategies is planting false intelligence, so there's always the possibility that this is another false alarm. However, as we don't have any other leads at this point, we'll have to take that chance.

"Kennedy and I did discuss sitting out this time, waiting for the next tip, considering the fact that this would be our first time working as a group and there may be a few kinks we need to work out before going into the field. However, we don't know if or when we'd have that chance, and ultimately I think the benefits outweigh the risks."

Stansfield rested his fingertips on the tabletop. "Our operation will be undercover. Rapp, Agent Romanoff, you'll be working on the ground from the inside. Make sure you establish at least basic familiarity with your respective methods and so forth before we move in. I'm told Agent Barton is an experienced sniper, so he'll be the eyes on this op, as well as being on call for backup."

Romanoff glanced at Barton, expecting him to look flattered. She was surprised to find him staring at her with his brow furrowed and his mouth slightly ajar, looking confused and rather displeased.

She frowned back at him. _What?_

He just shook his head, expression unchanging.

"...and it's a few miles south of the city," Stansfield was saying, and Romanoff switched her attention back to him. "Obviously, it's a much more populated setting, so Tarif is more likely to make an appearance, as he's tended to operate in crowded areas in the past. Still, as I said before, his presence is by no means a guarantee, so you'll need to be active throughout the duration of event, about eight-thirty to eleven."

Stansfield produced three manila folders. "Here's what you need to know to be ready by tomorrow," he said, handing one to Barton and two to Kennedy. Kennedy passed them to Romanoff, and she glanced in at the first page, absentmindedly sliding the other one to Rapp. "For now, are there any immediate questions I can answer?"

"I have a question, sir," Romanoff spoke up.

"Yes."

Romanoff paused, considering how to phrase her concern. "I was under the impression that the primary role of the CIA in this alliance was to provide intelligence," she said finally. "Doesn't it make more sense for SHIELD to provide the infiltration team?"

"You mean Team Delta," Stansfield said.

Romanoff waited.

Stansfield raised an eyebrow. "I hope you aren't averse to working with my operative, Miss Romanoff."

She shook her head, resting her forearms on the table. "No, not at all, it's just… you mentioned possible hiccups. Different styles to adjust to. If you send in me and Barton, you won't have to worry about that."

If truth be told, she was a bit confused as to why she was being partnered with a man who was basically a stranger with so little time to get to know him. She thought, too, that this setup was at least part of why Barton looked put out.

Beside her, Rapp was silent.

"Hm." Stansfield nodded. "You raise a good point. In fact, that was a concern Kennedy brought up, too. But, in the end, SHIELD's valuable resources notwithstanding, I think we can all agree on the benefit of having _three_ experienced agents on this op, especially as this is Jehu Tarif we're dealing with. We had already settled that Barton would be our most powerful asset up high, so it made sense to pair you up with Rapp. I know you must be used to doing things a certain way, so I hope this isn't a problem."

"It's not a problem, sir," Romanoff replied honestly. She felt Rapp glance at her as though trying to figure out whether she meant it. Barton still looked annoyed.

"Alright. Well, if there's nothing further?" Stansfield glanced around the table. "Very well. I think that covers everything, then. Please make sure you take a look through your files as we're rather pressed for time. Thank you."

Files rustled and chair legs squeaked as the assembly dispersed. Romanoff thumbed quickly through her folder, then glanced up at the dissolving party and stood, starting for the door.

"Agent Romanoff."

Romanoff swivelled to see Rapp approaching. He came to a stop in front of her, and for the first time, she comprehended how tall he was—he had roughly twelve inches on her.

"You don't seem eager to work with me," he said. "I'll try not to take it personally."

Despite his solemn expression, she sensed that he spoke in jest, and she arched an amused eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

He took half a step closer. "You're right," he said. "We barely know each other, and if we're going to be working together, that needs to change. I think we should spend some time together before tomorrow evening."

Romanoff nodded. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

Rapp opened his mouth to speak.

"Nat," Barton said before he could begin. Romanoff turned her head, surprised to find him at her side. "Can you believe this?"

Romanoff half-glanced at Rapp. "One second." She turned to Barton. "What?" she demanded, a bit irritated by the interruption.

"They're splitting us up," Barton said, frowning. "Doesn't make any sense."

"They're not splitting us up," Romanoff said briskly, trying to end the exchange.

Barton shrugged. "Whatever you want to call it. Point is, I just don't get why they're not pairing us for the undercover part, we've done it a thousand times."

"Don't worry about it," Romanoff said impatiently. "It doesn't matter. " She started to turn away, but Barton stopped her.

"It doesn't matter?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows. "I think it's at least—"

"Barton," Romanoff said sharply, and he froze. She tilted her head at Rapp. "Do you mind?"

Barton glanced at Rapp, and realization crossed his face. "Oh! Sorry." He took a step back. "Go ahead."

Romanoff turned back to Rapp. "You were saying?"

"Just that I haven't seen much of this place yet," he said. "I know I don't have clearance for all of it, but why don't you give me a tour of the facilities I can use?"

She nodded. "Sounds good. When?"

He shrugged his shoulders, a hint of a smile on his face. "How about right now?"

She smiled back. "Okay, let's do it."

She pivoted and led the way out of the conference room.


	7. FAMILIARIZE

So I have one or two more things to finish up before the schoolyear is officially over, but my schedule has cleared out enough that I had time to put out another chapter. I should be posting much more regularly after this week.

* * *

"SHIELD floor levels correspond to security levels," Romanoff said as she and Rapp walked down the hallway. "The higher the floor, the higher the security level. You're a guest, so this is as far up as you go. Above us are the private offices. We can only go down from here, which means… this will not be a long tour."

"That's not a problem."

"So, for starters, most of the conference rooms are here on the third floor," Romanoff began. "Communications center is here too, we'll be coming up on it in a minute. It's the least classified division here—they just answer calls, arrange meetings, sometimes get involved in diplomacy. They don't get much high-security stuff so it's mostly Level Twos and Threes."

"Have you ever worked there?" Rapp asked.

"Not officially," Romanoff said. "I was drafted into ops as soon as I got here. I've done jobs there, though, when I'm benched or Coulson calls in a favor."

"How'd you get yourself benched?"

Romanoff smirked. "Tear-gassed the home of a Secretary of State, for one."

"What for?" Rapp asked, grinning.

"Barton and I found out he was cheating on his wife. It was a surveillance job, so we weren't supposed to engage, but we figured he had it coming." Romanoff shrugged, a satisfied smile playing at her lips. "It was deemed 'misuse of resources' and we had to take a month off field work. Still worth it."

Rapp laughed softly through his nose.

"There's Comms. It's not much," Romanoff said, gesturing to their left as they passed it. Rapp looked through the glass wall to the busy agents beyond, sitting at desks, rummaging through filing cabinets, midway through phone calls.

"How long have you worked here?" Rapp asked as they continued on down the hall.

Romanoff arched an eyebrow. "This an interrogation?" she teased.

Rapp blinked. "I…"

Romanoff chuckled. "Eight years, I'm a Level Seven." She glanced at him and saw that he looked slightly relieved to find that she was joking. "How 'bout you, how long have you been in the business?"

"Seven years, counting the military," he replied.

Romanoff smiled to herself, pleased that she'd been right when she pegged him as former military.

They had reached the elevators. Romanoff pressed the round button and watched the numbers gradually descend toward three.

"I know you've seen the second floor—sleep rooms. We'll go to the basement instead," Romanoff said.

"Permission to ask another question," Rapp said, scrunching his brows in mock gravity.

Romanoff rolled her eyes, smothering a smile. "Permission granted."

"Do you have a sleep room here?"

"I do. Barton and I stay here when long-term jobs come up; it's a way to stay close to the hub. That's where we're staying this week."

The elevator doors scrolled apart and Romanoff stepped aside politely as a few agents stepped out and started down the hallway.

"So the two of you have known each other for a while?" Rapp asked as they boarded the elevator.

"Known him since I joined," Romanoff said, pressing the button for the basement level. The elevator whooshed downwards.

"So tell me about yourself," Rapp prompted at length. "Where are you from?"

"Russia," Romanoff replied.

Rapp raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. "I had figured that much out, _Natasha Romanoff,"_ he said pointedly. "Can I at least get a region?"

Romanoff grimaced, apologetic. She was accustomed to responding to personal questions as evasively as possible, particularly when posed by those she didn't know well. "Volgograd," she replied. "You?"

"I grew up here in New York," he said, as the elevator slowed to a halt.

Romanoff nodded as the door slid open, then led the way down a short hallway to where a glass door looked into a gymnasium. Inside, several people could be seen lifting weights running on treadmills, and attacking punching bags. Beyond that was a shooting range.

"This is the gym," Romanoff said, stopping in front of the door. She gestured further down the hallway. "Lockers and showers are that way." She tapped the glass door with her fingernail. "You look down that way, you can see the sparring mats."

Rapp leaned closer to the glass, craning his neck.

"Where I'll be kicking your ass tomorrow morning," Romanoff added, widening her eyes innocently at him.

Rapp looked down at her, amusement in his eyes. " _Who_ will be getting their ass kicked tomorrow morning?"

"Same person who got his ass kicked in New Rochelle," Romanoff said promptly.

Rapp grinned. "To be fair, I did think it was a six-foot Lebanese guy at first. Threw me off my game a little,"

"Excuses, excuses," Romanoff sang blithely. "Let's let the fighting speak for itself."

"Hear, hear," Rapp agreed.

Smirking, Romanoff ducked around Rapp and headed back to the elevators.

When they stepped out onto the ground floor, Romanoff slowed to a stop in the main lobby. She gestured ahead and to their left. "Let's see, Tech Unit's down that way—you don't want to see that, it's mostly computers—some lounge areas that way… and, here's the Wall of Valor." She led the way to where a stone monument stood before the glass wall to the outdoors.

Rapp joined her, leaning forward to study the names engraved across the pale surface. "Members of SHIELD who gave their lives in the service of humanity," he read in an undertone. "Know many of them?"

"A handful," Romanoff said softly.

They both fell silent, gazing thoughtfully at the monument. Romanoff heard the lobby clock chime, and she glanced at her watch. Eight o'clock.

She lifted her head, realizing for the first time that it had gone dark and she could see her reflection in the black glass of the window. She tilted her head, and her eyes slid to Rapp's reflection. He was still absorbed in the monument, hands clasped behind his back.

Romanoff turned to him, and he met her gaze.

"Ground floor also has the cafeteria, if you're interested."

He grinned. "Lead the way."

The cafeteria was just starting to fill up as all levels of SHIELD personnel gathered for dinner. Rapp and Romanoff moved slowly through the food line, then found a table for two by the wall.

Romanoff set down her tray as Rapp slid into his seat.

"I'll get us some drinks," she said, and headed to the drink dispensers.

The line to the drinks moved quickly, and before long, Romanoff had filled two glasses. She turned to head back and found herself face-to-face with Barton.

"There you are," he said brightly. "C'mere a sec." He took her by the wrist and steered her over to the wall, away from the press of the crowd.

"Look, first off, I'm sorry about what happened in the conference room," he began swiftly. "Didn't mean to piss you off. Guess I was kinda confused about the setup, is all. For the record, though, I'm totally fine with it. Just thought it was a little weird. Not bad. I mean, not bad _per se._ Just weird." He snagged a glass from Romanoff and took a swig.

"Anyway," he went on. "Things are obviously gonna be a little different this time, which is, you know, fine, but we'll need to adjust to the changes. We can talk about it over dinner. C'mon, I saved us a table." He started to turn away.

"Oh—Barton?"

"Yes?" He faced her, beaming.

Romanoff hesitated. Having blown him off earlier, she wasn't eager to do so again.

"Actually, I… Rapp's waiting on me," she said, tilting her head toward her table.

Barton's eyes traveled across the room and his smile faded.

"Oh!" He took a step back. "Yeah, no, that's totally fine… uh, here." He passed the cup back to her and his hands dropped awkwardly to his sides.

Romanoff pursed her lips apologetically. "Look, I'm—"

"Hey, no, don't apologize," he said quickly. "It's fine, um. Makes sense. You go ahead… I'll just…" He swiveled and strode out of the cafeteria.

Romanoff watched him go. Then she shrugged off the feeling of guilt (he'd said he didn't mind and besides, she had sat down with Rapp first—she wasn't doing anything wrong) and headed back to the table.

He had started on his salad when she slipped into her chair. "There was a line," she said by way of explanation, passing him the clean cup. She started on her own salad, and they fell quiet for several minutes as they ate, surrounded on all sides by the bustle and chatter of the dinnertime rush.

At last, Romanoff spoke.

"So," she began, lifting her eyebrows. "What is your impression of me?"

"Hm." Rapp settled his elbows on the tabletop and folded his hands under his chin, squinting at her across the table. If he was surprised by her question, he did not show it—perhaps he, like she, felt that they needed to be as open with each other as possible, no questions barred, in order to form at least some type of bond before they headed into the field.

"You're confident, but not cocky," he said at last. "You're quiet, but not shy. You're honest, but not tactless. You're adaptable, but not without method. You're cautious, but not afraid. You always have something to say, but you don't always say it."

Romanoff smiled. "I'm impressed."

Rapp inclined his head.

"But not surprised," Romanoff said, leaning onto her arms. "Because you're very observant. You haven't stopped studying things since you walked in here. You're always watching, even when you don't know it, and you notice more than you let on. You see so much, but you keep it all inside." She tilted her head. "Examining the world is important, but if you're not careful, you may forget to examine yourself."

Rapp met her eyes. "We all have our flaws."

"And what would you say is one of mine?"

Rapp raised his eyes to the ceiling, thinking. Then he said, "You hide your feelings so well that I wonder if you even know them yourself."

Romanoff looked thoughtfully at the tabletop.

Rapp's eyes fastened on something over her shoulder and he frowned. "Is that Agent Barton?"

Romanoff twisted in her seat, peering into the milling crowd. "I don't see him."

"Well, he's gone now."

Romanoff turned around again, frowning. "I thought he left."

"I could've been wrong. It did look like him, though."

Romanoff shrugged and speared a forkful of salad. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said.

But she was wrong.

* * *

So I don't love this one, mainly because the conflict feels a bit juvenile (and will continue to if I recall) and because Nat somehow turned into a fortune cookie there at the end.

Anyway, things will continue to pick up a bit in the next few chapters. There's one in particular I can't wait to post - 11, I think? Until then, I hope you enjoy the rising tension and rather sub-par dialogue! (I was still learning, ok? :)


	8. PERSPECTIVE

Of course it would happen this way. Just when Clint Barton was beginning to realize how much Natasha Romanoff really meant to him, Mr. Handsome-Dark-and-Brooding had to prance in and ruin the ride with his smolder and his _height…_

Rapp and Romanoff had to spend time together for professional reasons, so they could get better acquainted… or so Barton had told himself originally. But then he had seen them gazing into each other's eyes at dinner last night, and now they were sitting across the room, Natasha laughing at something Rapp had said. _Laughing._ Not her soft snicker, her condescending snort, or her hoarse little chuckle. Full-out laughing, grin lighting up her face, nose crinkled, eyes all squinty, just the way he liked. Barton had always prided himself on being the only one who could make her laugh like that.

He should've told her how he felt when he'd had the chance.

Barton scowled at his plate and stabbed a scrambled egg with his fork. _There's no need to be jealous, she's not your girlfriend. She can spend time with whoever the hell she wants and laugh at whatever lame, stupid jokes she wants. I'll bet it wasn't even funny; that's probably just a pity laugh. Mr. Grumpy over there probably doesn't know a joke from a canned tuna._

"Mind if I join you?"

Barton looked up. Kennedy was standing there with her breakfast tray, looking curiously at him.

Barton grunted an assent, taking a bite of egg.

Kennedy slid into the seat across from him and unfolded her napkin. "How are you this morning?"

Barton shrugged. "Fine."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Kennedy returned evenly.

Barton glanced up at her as she calmly buttered a slice of toast. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that she'd guessed something was wrong—from what he'd seen, Kennedy was quite perceptive. And he wasn't being particularly subtle, either.

After a moment, he sighed, rubbing his eyes. He knew that Kennedy wasn't prying; in fact, she most likely wasn't interested in hearing about his problems. She was asking because she could tell he needed an outlet, and she was right. But, though he knew that talking about it would help, he wasn't ready yet to tell anyone about his feelings for Natasha, or about how things seemed to be growing more and more awkward between them ever since Rapp had come to SHIELD.

"Thanks. But no thanks," he muttered.

Kennedy nodded understandingly. "Still, Barton, take my advice. You look pissed. Go blow off some steam, do something that helps you relax. Take a walk or meditate or do some yoga or something."

Barton immediately got to his feet. "Yeah, I think I will. Thanks."

Kennedy raised her eyebrows, smiling a little. "Aren't you going to finish your breakfast first?"

Barton glanced at Rapp and Natasha, who were leaning towards each other across the table, deep in conversation. He frowned.

"No, I'll go now," he said. "You're right. I need to do something that helps me relax."

 **.** **.** **.** **.** **.**

Barton stood in the shooting range, firing arrow after arrow into the moving targets. Rock music pounded through his headphones as the tension in his mind and body finally eased. He was in a familiar place with no need to worry about the stress of real life.

He exhausted his last arrow and pushed his headphones down around his neck, removing his safety glasses. Then he glanced through the soundproof glass divider into the gym and spied Natasha, who was beating the crap out of a punching bag. He propped his bow against the wall and headed out to talk to her, pleased that he'd managed to catch her alone, without Rapp.

She was panting and grunting from the exertion of the blows when he came up behind her. She was wearing black lycra shorts and a sports bra, and her perspiration was making her hair curl up. A few strands had escaped her ponytail and clung to the nape of her neck.

Barton tore his eyes away and stepped around, holding the punching bag steady. She tossed him a quick glance but did not speak as she continued pummeling the bag.

Barton counted eight more punches before he spoke.

"Hey, I think we need to talk about the mission tonight."

"About what, specifically?" she panted without breaking the stream of punches.

Barton paused. "Well… obviously I've done sniping for you lots of times, but never with someone else on the ground. Plus, usually when you're undercover, I'm right there with you. I mean, like I said before, I'm totally fine with it, I just think it'll take some adjustment."

"So we adjust," Natasha grunted. "Sure, it'll be different, but there's really nothing to discuss."

Barton stopped short, frowning. What _did_ he want to discuss?

"Hey, Romanoff," Rapp called from the sparring mats, and Barton's frown deepened. He should've guessed Rapp wouldn't be too far off. "You ready to get owned?"

"Are you?" she shot back playfully. She smirked at Barton and stepped back, starting to unwrap her hands. "Alright, I gotta go," she said, and Barton's heart sank. They were finally having a normal, private conversation; he couldn't let her go yet.

"Wait," he said, ducking around the punching bag. "Maybe you don't think there's anything to discuss, but I do, and I've been meaning to talk for a while. Can we talk about this? Please?"

"Little busy at the moment," Natasha said, furrowing her brow. She finished unwinding her hands and dropped her hand wraps, then started to turn away.

Barton caught her by the elbow. "Look," he began as she frowned up at him. "This is important to me. If not now, can we talk after?"

("Romanoff, you coming?" called Rapp.)

Natasha tugged slightly against his grasp. "After this, I was gonna look through my file again. Then we have our final briefing and I have to get ready and pack my gear. I'm just not sure we'll have time before this evening." She tried to turn away again but Barton tightened his hold on her elbow. She faced him, scowling. " _What?"_

"Please?" was all he could say.

Natasha huffed. "I'll see if I can carve out some time for you. No promises."

("Romanoff?" Rapp called.)

Natasha pulled out of Barton's grip and started toward the sparring mats.

"Nat—" Barton grabbed her hand. She yanked it away and rounded on him.

"Lay off, will you?" she snapped.

Barton started back in surprise.

"Just be patient. _Jesus,"_ she growled, glaring at him. "No need to be so damn clingy." She spun around and jogged to the sparring mat.

Barton stared after her, stunned. He couldn't remember the last time Nat had lost her temper like that. She must have been in a bad mood already. Maybe she hadn't gotten enough sleep the night before.

As he watched Natasha climb into the ring, another explanation occurred to him. Maybe… she had snapped because he really _had_ been that clingy lately. He thought back on his last few attempts to start a conversation with her. Each time, he had pushed her to talk with him when she clearly hadn't wanted to. And for what? _There's really nothing to discuss,_ Natasha had said, and he realized that she was right. He'd never had anything specific he'd needed to discuss with her. He'd been surprised and a bit disappointed to learn of his and Rapp's respective roles in the mission, but there was not much to be said beyond that. And now he was realizing that his constant attempts to get her alone had been little more than a ploy to stop her from spending so much time with Rapp.

And, more importantly, to spend _more_ time with _him._

Rapp and Natasha had finished establishing ground rules and they stepped apart, both assuming attack positions. The tension in the air was thick as the two agents faced off, eying one another critically.

Then Rapp attacked.

Barton hadn't planned on watching, but as soon as he started, he found that he couldn't look away. Both competitors were equally deadly, matching each other blow for blow, strike for strike. He ducked her kick, she blocked his punch, like it was a dance they had rehearsed their whole lives.

A crowd began to gather as the sparring match became more intense. Agents set down their weights, stepped off their treadmills, halted in their stretching, all drawing closer to the mat like it was a fire in a blizzard. All eyes were on the pair, all heads turned their way, and Barton could hear people whispering about the Black Widow and the stranger from CIA.

Careless of the crowd, Rapp and Natasha continued their hypnotizing sequence, not allowing their concentration to slide for a second.

"C'mon, Nat," Barton heard himself mutter. He blinked, rather surprised that he was no longer upset about her harsh words. He supposed that, at the moment, he would root for anyone who was opposing Rapp.

Rapp blocked Natasha's kick with his forearm, then headed her back a few steps, both of their fists raised protectively. Natasha's hair flew as she feinted a blow to his right, then launched a speedy attack on his left side. After the second punch, Rapp managed to catch her right forearm in his left hand and spin her towards him, pinning her back to his chest.

Barton knew his partner well enough to guess what she would do next. Rather than try to escape the hold immediately, she would use it to her advantage.

He was right. She looped her free arm backward around his neck and hoisted her knees up, arching her lower body away from his. Barton recognized the move: she would kick out and create a whiplash effect with her body, using the momentum to pull him to the ground.

Unfortunately, Rapp recognized it too. He blocked the maneuver by spreading his palm across her stomach, pulling her up against him—

—and Barton's mouth went dry. He turned and headed straight for the door. His brain kept taunting him with the image of Rapp's hand on Natasha's bare stomach, and his jaw clenched.

It wasn't that he'd never seen a guy touch Natasha before. On the contrary, he could recall several seduction missions that had made him consider volunteering as a target for the shooting range.

But this was different. This wasn't some goggle-eyed pervert who Natasha just had to distract long enough for Barton to put an arrow between his eyes. This was _Rapp._ A man whom Natasha clearly liked. In whose company she had spent roughly the past twelve hours. And who could make her laugh until her eyes crinkled up into little crescent-moons.

Halfway to the door, Barton heard the crowd catch its breath, probably admiring Natasha's clever escape from the hold.

But Barton didn't turn around.

* * *

A peek inside Barton's head! Again, somewhat juvenile conflict will continue, but I have to say I actually don't hate the fight scene.

Pretty much everything you're reading is exactly how I wrote it at age 15, but I'll admit I've been tweaking bits here and there: one or two out-of-character decisions, some cheesier bits of dialogue, etc. However, from this point forward I think I'll be tweaking less and less, because things just get better from here on out.


	9. FINAL BRIEFING

"You know, you remind me a little of someone," Rapp commented as he and Romanoff headed down the hall to the final briefing.

Romanoff raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yep." Rapp smiled, his gaze dropping thoughtfully to the floor as they walked. "She's not as… well. _Intense_ as you are, but she has your spirit."

Something about his tone and his expression gave rise to a suspicion in Romanoff's mind: she wondered whether he was talking about a romantic partner. She smiled to herself as she walked alongside him.

"She sounds great."

Rapp chuckled softly. "She is. She's really something," he said, and the suspicion in Romanoff's mind bloomed into certainty

It occurred to her then that Rapp had made rather a point of mentioning this woman—he tended to be more closed-off and wasn't the type of person to volunteer private information. If he hadn't _needed_ to bring her up, that must have meant he'd _wanted_ to, likely because of their mutual resolve to be as open with one another as possible.

"She's very lucky," Romanoff said, indicating that she understood at least something of his relationship with this woman.

Rapp seemed to understand. He smiled.

"I'm the lucky one," he said. "I'd be luckier if I got to see her more, though. She lives in Switzerland, and we can't exactly meet up and go on vacation, if you know what I mean."

Romanoff nodded as they neared the conference room. She understood Rapp's position; in their line of work, their mere connection to a loved one could make that loved one a target, and it was best to limit the time you spent with them. It was this reality that often made her feel relieved that she had no friends to speak of outside of SHIELD.

"Must be rough," she said, dropping her voice as they stepped into the room. Barton and Kennedy were already inside, sitting at the conference table.

"It is," Rapp murmured as they drew to a stop beside the table. "But it's for the best."

Romanoff's eyes met Barton's for a second, then he looked away. All at once, her last words to him came flooding back: _Lay off, will you? Just be patient._ Jesus. _No need to be so damn clingy._

Romanoff cringed, realizing how harsh she'd sounded. She'd been under pressure at the time; she hadn't really meant it. Sure, she'd blown off Barton's last few attempts to make conversation with her, but that hadn't been because she'd found them _irritating._ It was more that he'd never approached her at a good time.

"You two made quite the buzz with your sparring match this morning," Kennedy was saying, smiling at them. "Everyone's talking about it, but no one can seem to agree on who won."

Romanoff and Rapp exchanged looks.

"It was a draw," Rapp said.

"I won," said Romanoff.

Rapp tipped an eyebrow at her. "I thought we agreed not to name a winner."

Romanoff shrugged, a grin tickling her lips. " _You_ may have agreed. I still won."

Rapp crossed his arms in mock indignation. "Really. And how do you figure that?"

"You broke the rules, so you were disqualified. It was a win by deduction," Romanoff said, widening her eyes innocently.

"Okay, it was never _explicitly stated_ that sucker punches were off-limits."

Romanoff tossed her hair back. "No, but it was _implicitly_ stated when I said 'no dirty punches'."

Rapp shrugged. "Who says a sucker punch is dirty?"

Romanoff feigned shock. "The unwritten laws of dirty fighting! Back me up, Barton," she added. Barton was being uncharacteristically quiet and for some reason she wanted him to join in with their teasing banter.

"Nat won," Barton told Rapp. "Sucker punches aren't fair play."

" _Thank you,"_ Romanoff said.

Rapp shrugged. "Fine. I call a rematch, though."

Romanoff smiled. "I'd never turn it down." She slid into a seat, and Rapp sat down next to her.

Romanoff glanced at Barton again. He was humming under his breath and scratching at the tabletop with his thumbnail. She bit her lip, guilt tugging at her chest. She was going to have to talk to him.

"You all think you're ready for this one?" Kennedy asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Rapp said.

"I've been through the file a few times and I think I'm all set," Romanoff said.

"Stansfield and Coulson are coming, right?" Rapp asked.

Kennedy nodded. "They're finishing up some last-minute stuff. They'll be in soon."

Barton exhaled and dropped an arm over the back of his chair, catching Romanoff's attention. She frowned, wondering why she was suddenly so attuned to his movements. He'd barely said three words, yet she was more aware of his presence than anyone else's in the room. Maybe her guilt was manifesting itself in strange ways.

Rapp and Kennedy were still talking but Romanoff wasn't paying attention until Rapp addressed her.

"We don't have to be down there til eight, right?"

It took a moment for his question to register.

"Oh. Right," she confirmed, and Rapp turned back to Kennedy.

Romanoff looked back at Barton and got the distinct impression that he'd just been looking at her. She tilted her head at him, trying to make eye contact, but he didn't look her way again.

Coulson and Stansfield entered the conference room moments later.

"Thank you all for coming," Coulson said, heading to the front of the room. "Hopefully by now you've all looked through your files and are familiar with the mission. I'm just going to brief you all very quickly to make sure we're all on the same page."

Coulson moved to the screen that was mounted on the wall and tapped it to life. A single image flickered into view: the blueprint of a building.

"This is the building where you'll be working, Agents Romanoff and Rapp," Coulson said. "It's near Rochester, about a half-hour away. The event starts at eight and ends at eleven and we need you to be there the whole time so you can keep a lookout for Tarif. You have about an hour before you need to head out.

"You'll be working primarily in this area," Coulson went on, gesturing to a large, open room. "Just try to blend in, keep your eyes open, the whole deal. If there's no sign of Tarif by the end, it might be a good idea to do a ground check, inside and out. The building has three floors; make sure you sweep 'em all. Barton," he continued. "Your job is to have eyes on them at all times. There's a pretty substantial forest behind the building, so there are plenty of options if you need to get up high. If you need to be on a roof, the nearest option is a couple hundred yards _that_ way, so make sure you have a scope if you decide to go that route. Make sure you keep your eyes open for Tarif, too. If possible, we'd like to question him, so try to go non-lethal—tranquilizers, knockout arrows, that kind of thing. If it comes right down to it, though, don't hesitate to take him down."

Barton nodded.

Coulson straightened. "Well, I think that about wraps it up. Any questions?"

They shook their heads.

"Then you're free to go."

Gradually, the small party began to disperse. Wanting to speak with Barton, Romanoff matched his slow movements as he stood and lingered by the table, watching the others filter out the door. Abruptly he lengthened his stride and traipsed out of the room. Romanoff followed.

"Barton," she called as she moved down the hall.

Barton drew up short and turned to face her, waiting expressionlessly until she halted in front of him.

Romanoff took a slow breath and tucked her hair behind her ear. She was no good at apologies.

"Hey, uh…" She fidgeted with her fingers. "About earlier."

Barton didn't respond. His brow creased slightly.

Romanoff chewed at her lip. "I'm—I mean, I didn't—what I said—"

"Oh, that?" Barton spoke up. He shook his head. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

Romanoff exhaled, relieved to hear both his voice and his reassurance. "Okay. I was just…" She dropped her head. "I don't know why I said that. I didn't mean any of it."

"Like I said, it's not a big deal," Barton replied.

There was an awkward silence. And it hit Romanoff how long it had been since they'd had a normal conversation. The two of them were so close that twenty-four hours with relatively no conversation seemed an eternity, especially filled as this period had been with tension and awkwardness.

"Well," Barton said, edging away from her. "I gotta suit up."

Romanoff nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," Barton repeated. He hesitated, eyes lingering on her for a moment, then swivelled and continued on down the hallway.

Romanoff watched him go, frowning. There was something hanging between them, a certain tension she couldn't identify. Their words were tight and measured, and silences stretched on too long.

At last, Romanoff sighed and shook her head in mystification. With one last glance at Barton's retreating back, she turned and headed up the hall.

 **.** **.** **.** **.** **.**

Barton could feel Nat's eyes on his back as he walked down the corridor. It was the same sensation he'd felt in the conference room between his own quick glances at her. She'd been watching him—he'd felt the warm weight of her gaze, and he'd wondered why.

Then she'd been so urgent in the hallway. He kept thinking about the way her voice had sounded when she'd said his name, her adorable nervous gestures, the earnestness in her eyes. He hadn't been sure what she was going to say, and once he realized what she was talking about, he'd been relieved.

Because, sure, he was feeling hurt and confused. Things were becoming awkward between the two of them, and it felt as though Natasha was trying to avoid him, which made him unhappy.

But Natasha's outburst, while it had stung him initially, no longer bothered him. He understood why she had lost her temper and didn't fault her for it.

What really struck home was the intent behind her harsh words.

He was sure she hadn't meant to phrase it so strongly, but she was right. Painful though the realization was, he had to admit that he had been too needy. And he could see where that would be annoying for Natasha.

Which was why he'd decided to give her some space.

Sure, it would be tough. He was used to being in her company frequently; he _enjoyed_ being in her company frequently. Perhaps more than he cared to admit to himself.

And, yes, she had apologized for what she'd said. But it seemed to him that it was rough tone and delivery that she regretted, not the sentiment itself.

And if Natasha had, in any way, implied that she didn't want him around, then he needed to back off.

Besides… Natasha had been spending a lot of time with Rapp lately. And Barton didn't know if anything would come of the relationship. But, in case it did, it might be a good idea to begin to distance himself now, both physically and emotionally, before he got in too deep.

So, yes, distance was a good thing, Barton told himself as he walked away from Natasha. It hurt like hell right now, but in the long run, it was for the best.

* * *

...thus continues the rather highschoolish conflict. Still, as I said, the upcoming chapters are much better in my opinion - I can't wait for you to see what happens next!


	10. PREPARATIONS

Romanoff tilted her head, studying her reflection critically. For tonight, she had chosen a lavender off-the-shoulder dress that was elegant without being overexposed. The bodice hugged her form and ended in a drop-waist over her hips and the dress erupted in ruffles when it reached her thighs, creating the perfect camouflage for her thigh holster. Her hair was down and curled in loose waves, and pearl studs shimmered at her earlobes.

Romanoff pressed her lips together, distributing her light pink lipstick more evenly. Satisfied with her appearance, she moved out of her bathroom to don the off-white sandals that completed her outfit. Then she headed down to the lobby to meet Barton and Rapp.

Rapp was already in the lobby when she got there, pacing back and forth and glancing at his watch. He looked up as she approached him and nodded a greeting. "Nice dress."

"Nice tux," she returned, resting one hand on her hip. She swivelled her head around, feeling her curls graze her bare shoulder "Where's Barton?"

"On his way," Rapp said.

Romanoff nodded, dropping her eyes to the floor.

After a moment, Rapp said, "You know, if our covers are engaged, shouldn't we practice making it look convincing?"

Romanoff lifted her head and smiled sweetly, taking a step closer. "What did you have in mind?" she teased, already getting into character as she adjusted his bowtie.

Rapp clasped her waist and tilted his head, a false smile sliding across his face. "Well, Nicole," he began.

"Naomi," Romanoff corrected, still beaming at him.

"Right." Rapp squeezed his eyes shut, committing the name to memory. "Naomi. So. Even if we're talking about the mission, _Naomi,_ we both have to pretend I'm sweet-talking you."

"Yes, I see." Romanoff spread her hands on his shoulders, morphing her features into a look of adoration. Suddenly she was glad for all the time they had been spending together. Without it, this would've felt (and probably looked) awkward. As it was, she already felt at ease around Rapp.

"So even if I'm saying 'Tarif's behind you, get ready to attack," Rapp went on, pulling her closer. "Just pretend I'm discussing our wedding plans."

Romanoff tipped her head on its side, feigning delight. "Oh, Miles, what a perfect idea!"

Rapp smiled. "I probably don't have to tell you any of this," he admitted, finally stepping back from her. "You seem to know what you're doing."

Romanoff linked her hands behind her back. "It's nothing I haven't done before. Barton and I have used the engaged cover more times than I can count."

"Hm." Rapp nodded. His eyes fastened on something over her shoulder. "Speak of the devil."

Romanoff spun around, and there was Barton, frozen mid-stride some thirty feet away with his eyes locked onto her, his face inscrutable.

Romanoff frowned, puzzled by his expression, and tilted her head at him. _What?_

Barton blinked, then started forward like someone had pressed the Play button, releasing her from his intense gaze.

She'd felt it again, just for a second, that nameless _something_ that was hanging between them. She searched for it again in Barton's face as he came to a stop beside them, but he was expressionless. She couldn't get a read on him like she usually could, and it frustrated her.

"All set?" Barton asked, addressing his question to Rapp.

"Yep. You?"

"Good to go," he replied, adjusting the duffel bag that was slung over his shoulder.

"Then let's go," Rapp said.

The black, SHIELD-issue vehicle was parked out front. Romanoff automatically moved to the passenger side door, as Barton typically drove on missions. She paused with her fingers on the handle when Rapp headed around to the driver's seat. She glanced at Barton, but he was calmly sliding into the backseat, so she mentally shrugged and got into the car.

Romanoff pulled her hair over one shoulder to preserve her smooth waves as Rapp stated the engine. The shuffling noises of Barton situating his gear sounded from the backseat as the car pulled away from Headquarters.

"So, Romanoff," Rapp spoke up as their speed climbed. "Here's a question for you."

Romanoff turned her head, eyeing him expectantly.

Rapp alternated his gaze between her and the road. "If I get into a life-or-death fight with Tarif… _would_ I be allowed to sucker punch him?"

Romanoff laughed, shaking her head in exasperation. "You just _cannot_ let that go, can you?"

"It's a fair question!" Rapp said with mock seriousness. "If it's really as egregious a crime as you make it out to be, maybe I shouldn't even use it against my worst enemy."

Romanoff rolled her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head again, a smile tugging at her lips. "Okay, fine. Only if he is _clearly winning_ and he has you in a sleeper hold you can't get out of should you resort to cheating."

Rapp shot her a disgruntled look. "That is _not_ what happened."

"Um, yes, that's _exactly_ what happened," Romanoff informed him. She tried to catch Barton's eye in the mirror, looking for support, but he was scowling down at his lap.

"I stand by my former statement," Rapp said. "You were not winning, because you did not have me in a sleeper hold I couldn't get out of. I could've slipped it another way, I just chose the way you apparently thought was cheating."

Romanoff squinted at him in the mirror. "Another way? Like what?"

"Okay, like… You know that joint-lock I had you in that you flipped out of? That wasn't that different from the sleeper hold, I could've gotten out that way."

Romanoff turned to him, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. "Really? You think you could've done _that?"_

"Yeah, of course!"

Romanoff smirked and focused her gaze forward again. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Rapp sighed heavily and shook his head.

Barton still hadn't said a word, Romanoff realized, twisting her mouth to one side. She glanced at him in the rearview mirror and again got the feeling he'd just been looking at her. She frowned at his reflection, then dropped her eyes to her lap. _This is going to be a long drive._


	11. UNDERCOVER

They reached their destination shortly after eight. The sun had just set and the last vestiges of daylight were fading from the sky. People were filtering from their cars into the impressive structure when Rapp parked the car.

He turned to Barton and Romanoff. "Got everything you need?"

"Mhm." Romanoff tossed her hair aside, fitting her comm unit into her ear. She triple-checked her Glock, then glanced at Barton, who was just slipping in his own earpiece.

"I'm good," he said, ducking his head to collect his equipment.

Romanoff squinted at him, allowing herself one last moment to wonder what was going through his mind. She had already resolved not to think about what was going on between them during the mission, as concentration in the field was crucial. Fortunately, she was good at compartmentalizing, so she should be able to focus on the job, despite the tension between herself and Barton.

Rapp raised his eyebrows at her. "Okay. Let's do this."

The two of them alighted from the car and started towards the building. Rapp offered Romanoff his arm and she took it, allowing her face to slip into its cheerful, relaxed mask as they fell into step with the oblivious partygoers.

Inside, the rooms were lit with a golden glow and light music spun on the air. The rooms were filling up with chattering, laughing people and the bar across the way was already getting plenty of business.

 _When you've seen one party, you've seen 'em all,_ Romanoff thought, systematically scanning the crowd. Aloud she said, "What the hell's this party even for?"

Rapp looked down at her in amusement. "Thought you said you read the file."

Romanoff shrugged. "I skimmed the boring parts. I'm really good at improv."

"Good luck with that."

Romanoff smirked and poked her comm on. "How am I sounding?" she asked Barton.

"Very confident in your abilities," Rapp teased.

"Clear," Barton replied through the comm.

Rapp raised a hand to his ear. "How about me?"

"All clear," Barton said.

"Why don't we walk around a little, dear," Rapp suggested, his voice dripping with false adoration. His motive was clear: _Let's look around for Tarif, get the lay of the land._

"Of course, Miles," she responded.

They began to weave through the colorfully-dressed crowd, searching the sea of faces for their target. Rapp, being taller, had the better vantage point, but Romanoff employed her acute sense of hearing, listening for the slightest touch of a Middle Eastern accent.

They had just entered one of the adjoining rooms when Rapp cursed under his breath and did a one-eighty. His hand clamped down on Romanoff's forearm and he spun her around, steering her firmly back the way they had come.

"What's wrong," Romanoff murmured, keeping her face neutral.

Rapp halted and pulled her around to face him, encircling her waist with one arm and using his free hand to cup the side of her face. He smiled indulgently at her for a moment, then leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I saw someone I know."

He drew back and Romanoff beamed up at him. "Who," she asked without moving her lips.

Rapp leaned down again on the pretense of nuzzling her cheek. "I know him as Victor. We don't get along. He'll blow my cover in a heartbeat."

Romanoff considered this a moment, smiling blandly at a passing couple. Then she tugged at Rapp's collar, pulling him down to her level.

"Wait out here," she whispered in his ear. "I'll check that room." She started to turn away.

"Wait." Rapp caught her by the arm. He hesitated. "Our comms aren't linked to each other's, just Barton's, correct?"  
Romanoff frowned. "I think so. Barton?"

"Yeah, just mine," Barton confirmed, speaking for the first time. "Otherwise you'd hear an echo."

"Can you link ours long enough for Nat to poke around in there?" Rapp asked.

There was a pause. "Uhhh. No. Not those. They're single-nexus. Coulson must've figured you'd be together the whole time."

"Then we will be," Rapp decided. "Best to be safe. Nat, we'll find a place to sit where we can keep an eye on who comes out of there."

Romanoff nodded. She recovered her carefree visage as a small group of people passed them. "Shall we get a drink, darling?" she suggested loudly.

"Of course, Naomi," Rapp agreed.

They moved to the bar and procured two bottles of beer. Then Rapp set his hand at Romanoff's back, guiding her toward a table by the wall where they had a view of both exits.

"So," Rapp murmured as they sat down. "How'm I doing?"

Romanoff tilted her head quizzically at him.

"This is my first time working with a partner," he clarified.

"Oh?" Romanoff raised her eyebrows at him across the table. "How do you like it so far?"

"I don't know… It's different," he replied. "I can't decide if it's better or worse."

"Hm." Romanoff took a swallow of beer.

"Which do you prefer?" Rapp asked.

"Working with a partner," Romanoff said immediately.

"And why's that?"

Romanoff paused. "Many reasons," she said thoughtfully. "It's more efficient, for one. You can get the same amount of work done in half the time. Plus, it's good to know someone has your back."

"So you don't think it's dangerous for you and your partner to be codependent?" Rapp asked.

Romanoff pursed her lips. "We're not codependent," she said. "We're both independent. We don't look out for each other because we can't do it alone; we do it because that's what partners do."

"And because we care about each other," Barton added quietly.

Romanoff looked out the dark window, wondering abstractedly where Barton was stationed. "Yeah," she murmured. "That, too."

She tore her gaze away from the window and glanced across the room again.

"Group of people coming out of that room," she muttered to Rapp. "Your seven o'clock."

Rapp turned and watched furtively as several men filed out of the room where Victor was. Abruptly he turned to face the window, resting the side of his head on his hand to hide his face.

"Which one?" Romanoff said under her breath.

"The biggest, stupidest-looking one of the bunch. What the hell's he even doing here?"

Romanoff located the tallest, burliest, and ugliest man in the group and tracked his progress across the room. She sipped her beer, watching as the men moved through the nearer door and into other parts of the building.

"He's gone."

Rapp looked cautiously around. "Want to check out that room now?"

Romanoff nodded and they both stood up. She took Rapp's arm and they headed to the adjoining room.

It was smaller than the main room, so it didn't take long to scan over the scattered faces as they strolled casually around.

"No sign of him," Rapp murmured for Barton's benefit once they'd made a full circle.

Romanoff leaned her head on his upper arm (she couldn't quite reach his shoulder) and dropped her voice. "We should head back and keep a lookout."

Rapp grunted in agreement and they started back to the main room.

They were within fifteen paces of it when Victor appeared in the doorway and Rapp whirled to face Romanoff. He grasped her hips and smiled lovingly at her, keeping his back to the door.

"What's he doing?"

Romanoff grinned up at Rapp, following Victor's movements in her peripheral vision. "Bending over… picking up… _something…_ his drink. Must've forgotten it."

Rapp caressed the side of her face with one hand. "Moron."

Romanoff draped her arms around Rapp's neck, continuing to flirt with him until Victor circled back to the door.

"All clear," she said at last.

Rapp exhaled in relief. He took Romanoff's hand and they headed back to their table.

* * *

Yayy I love this mission section! Let me know what you guys think so far. :)


	12. LOVE AND WEAKNESS

"Well, I guess we knew going in that he might not show," Rapp said.

Romanoff checked the time: just after ten o'clock. Still no sign of Tarif. Once or twice they'd thought they'd seen him but had been mistaken. They'd been here for over two hours; at this point they'd more or less accepted that Tarif was not coming and that their remaining hour would be passed in dull company and fruitless conversation.

Romanoff yawned and rested her chin on her hand. Rapp glanced at her.

"Don't go all sleepy on me, Romanoff. We've gotta stay alert."

"I am alert. It was a yawn of boredom. Besides, he's probably not coming."

"Yeah," Rapp mused. There was a long silence.

"You know, we haven't stretched our legs in a while," Rapp said at last. "C'mon." He stood and offered her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet, leading her away from the table.

Rapp guided her to the dance floor in the center of the room where a handful of couples was already swaying to the light music. He turned to face her, settling his free hand on her hip, and brought her into an easy waltz.

Romanoff raised an eyebrow at him, smiling. "I thought we were gonna walk around again."

He shrugged, grinning back. "Thought I'd change it up this time." She sensed a slight shift in his posture and grasp, so she was prepared when he twirled her under his arm.

She faced him again, and he smiled, lifting his eyebrows. "Not bad."

She smirked. "I get a lot of practice.

Rapp smiled back. Then his face grew serious. He cleared his throat. "So… as long as we have nothing to do but hang out until this thing ends, I was wondering if I could ask you something."

"Be my guest."

"I was thinking about what you and Barton were saying earlier," Rapp said. "How you look out for each other because you care about each other."

Romanoff nodded expectantly.

Rapp hesitated. "Well, there's… there's someone I care about a lot. She's—she's very important to me, and I—" He stopped. Smiled a little. "I think you know who I mean."

"Yes, I think I do," Romanoff said, smiling back as their earlier conversation played through her mind. His… girlfriend? Fiancée? Wife? His… well, his _special someone,_ at any rate.

"So what I'm wondering is," Rapp went on. "In our line of work, do you think it's dangerous to care about someone so much? Do you think love is a liability?"

Romanoff tilted her head on its side, pondering his question. "Growing up, I was taught that love is weakness," she said. "But, after I joined SHIELD, I realized that love is not weakness. Love is strength."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, take me and Barton, for example," Romanoff began, then stopped short. Rapp was asking for advice about a relationship that was clearly romantic in nature. Bringing up Barton had made it sound as if—

"I mean—not that I love Agent Barton—" she said hastily. "Actually—no, I _do_ love Agent Barton," she interrupted herself, her face growing warm. "But, you know, not—not like—I mean. We're just friends, I'm not—" Romanoff cut herself off, dropping her head. She had the tendency to ramble when she became flustered, and she'd had to train herself to stop talking before she said something stupid.

(In this case, she wondered if she'd been a bit too late.)

 _We're just friends…_ Something about those words bothered her, but she didn't have time to figure out what. Rapp was waiting, and she had to try to collect her few remaining crumbs of dignity and recover her composure.

At last, Romanoff lifted her head. "Love in any form," she began, her voice now smooth and professional, "is strength. With myself and my partner, it's our mutual respect and care for each other that makes us a stronger team. Our… affection is in incentive to work harder at protecting each other and encouragement to be better intelligence agents. So love—whether romantic or not—is strength."

She exhaled, relieved. _Nice save._

She was suddenly painfully aware that Barton could hear her perfectly.

Rapp nodded thoughtfully. "That's true. Love in itself is strength." He paused. "But… do you think love _creates_ weakness?"

Romanoff pursed her lips. "I guess…" she began slowly. "Maybe love itself isn't a weakness. But maybe the person you love is a weakness."

"Yes," Rapp said softly. "I think she is."

They were both quiet for a moment, swaying to the gentle music. Then Rapp said, "What about you? Do you have a weakness?"

"Nope," Romanoff said. "No weaknesses."

But then Barton's endearing face flashed through her mind, and she smiled slightly. And it hit her suddenly that Barton meant more to her than anyone else in the world.

"Well," she said softly. "Maybe one."

Suddenly Barton's voice sounded in her ear.

"Hey guys. Hate to ruin the moment, but I found Tarif."

Instantly, Romanoff's mind was cleared of all thoughts of love and weakness.

"Where?" Rapp muttered as they scanned the room.

"Like, twenty feet away from you guys. Behind you."

Rapp glanced furtively over his shoulder.

"No, not you," Barton said impatiently. " _You."_

Romanoff looked behind her.

A tall Middle-Eastern man was standing by the door. He turned his head, and Romanoff caught sight of his face.

"That's him."

Rapp turned Romanoff back toward him, keeping up the pretense of dancing with her. "I'll circle around behind him," he murmured. "You go around front and—Crap. He's gone."

"What?" Romanoff whirled to look. They both stared blankly at the door for a second.

"Barton, do you have eyes on Tarif?" Rapp demanded.

"Hang on," Barton replied. And then, "Got 'em. He's moving through the building, headed north. Damn good thing there's so many windows."

Rapp took Romanoff's hand. "C'mon," he said, and they headed out of the main room.

They passed the exterior door and headed into deeper parts of the building. There were fewer guests walking through the maze of hallways, but enough of them that they had to keep their voices down.

"Barton, do you have a clear shot?" Rapp asked tersely.

"Yeah, but I won't take it til I have to. Breaking a window won't help us keep a low profile."

Rapp and Romanoff continued on through the halls, maneuvering around partygoers, often having only a small flash to go on as Tarif vanished around corners.

"Think he knows we're onto him?" Romanoff muttered.

Rapp shrugged. "No idea."

They turned into another hallway and stopped. Tarif was nowhere in sight.

There was the sound of a door closing, and Rapp pointed at a fork in the hallway to their right. They hurried into the small corridor, towards the closed door at its end.

Beyond the door were even more remote reaches of the building. People still moved through these hallways, but the atmosphere was more hushed than in other parts of the building.

Romanoff glimpsed Tarif disappearing around a corner. "There."

They hastened toward the place where he had vanished.

They had barely turned the corner when Rapp took Romanoff by the arms and threw her against the wall.

Romanoff's surprise was short-lived—there, loitering in the hall, was Victor and his gang.

They were taking up most of the hallway, deep in conversation, but Victor's back was to Rapp and Romanoff. He hadn't noticed them yet.

Rapp's hands were digging into Romanoff's elbows as he held her against the wall and he was breathing hard, his face tense. His quick movement had caused a curl to fall into her face, and she tossed her head, trying to displace it without the use of her arms.

"Maybe we can get past without him seeing you," Romanoff muttered, but at that moment, Victor turned to face them.

"Scratch that. He sees us."

Rapp closed his eyes and pressed himself up against Romanoff, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Victor. Romanoff leaned her head back against the wall.

" _What's he doing now,"_ he breathed, anxiety showing in his face.

Romanoff rolled her head over to see around Rapp. Victor was leaning over to say something to one of his cronies, pointing directly at them.

"I think he's onto you."

Rapp groaned quietly, and his grip on her arms tightened.

"Tarif's getting away," Barton spoke up.

"Give us a second," Romanoff growled. She was rapidly considering their options. If they tried to fight their way out, their cover would be exposed, not only to Victor's group, but to everyone in the vicinity. If they went back the way they had come, they would be moving in the opposite direction from Tarif and would lose him. If they went forward, Victor's group would apprehend them.

And now Victor was within ten feet of them, stepping closer, craning his neck to see Rapp's face.

Romanoff looked up at Rapp.

"Kiss me."

Rapp blinked. "What?"

"Do it."

Rapp bent his head and kissed her on the mouth.

The result was instantaneous. Victor took a step back, looking offended.

Rapp pulled back, giving Romanoff a puzzled look. Victor hesitated.

"Again. More," Romanoff ordered, and Rapp obliged.

He had apparently understood her 'more' as well, because this time he poured more intensity and passion into the kiss. Romanoff did the same, feigning noises of pleasure to complete the effect. She opened one eye and saw to her satisfaction that disgust had registered on the faces of Victor and the others. After exchanging uncomfortable glances, they left.

 _Works every time._

Rapp was still kissing her obliviously, and her arms were still pinned to the wall. Her foot found his and she applied pressure, and he stepped back, staring at her in bewilderment.

"Mind explaining why I did that?" he said.

Romanoff smirked. "To get rid of them. See? It worked. C'mon." She stepped away from the wall and began jogging down the hallway, and Rapp fell into stride beside her.

"Barton, do you have a visual on Tarif?" Rapp asked.

"West exit," Barton said shortly.

"West _exit?"_ Romanoff frowned and pressed her comm into her ear. "Is he outside?"

"Heading that way."

"Well, that's good, right?" Rapp said. "Once he gets outside, you can tranq him."

"No. I'm on the east side," Barton said tightly. "Three-story building in the way."

"Well, you're gonna have to get someplace where he's in your range," Rapp said.

"Oddly enough, I'd worked that out myself," Barton snapped. "Just gimme a second."

Rapp and Romanoff hurried on in tense silence for several minutes. The halls grew emptier as they went on, until they were completely empty and the two of them were running through quiet, echo-y corridors. They headed west through the building until, at last, they saw the exterior door ahead of them.

They paused at the door and locked eyes. Simultaneously they drew their pistols, then Rapp opened the door.

Fresh, cool air touched their faces as they peered into the darkness outdoors. All was silent except for the chirping of crickets. A dense forest stretched out from the door, and among the trees, Romanoff distinguished a lone figure moving away from them. She touched Rapp's shoulder and gestured with her pistol.

Rapp cocked his gun.

And, just like that, Tarif was running, the dark slipping over him like a cloak. Rapp and Romanoff immediately took off after him.

Under the shadow of the trees, it was too dark to see, but Romanoff could hear Tarif's rapid footsteps. Guns at the ready, she and Rapp followed the sounds deeper into the wood.

The noises faded into silence.

Rapp and Romanoff slowed to a stop. Romanoff peered all around, straining to see through the blackness.

"Where'd he go," Rapp muttered.

In reply, a car motor growled to life about thirty yards ahead of them, and a pair of blinding headlights cut through the forest. Rapp and Romanoff instantly ran towards the vehicle, but it was too late. Tarif was speeding away.

Rapp amd Romanoff halted, panting for air. Frustration clawed at Romanoff as the car's taillights gradually shrunk to bright pinpricks.

The noise of the engine was just fading when another one amplified behind them. Romanoff turned, hope sparking as a familiar black SHIELD car bounced through the trees. The car careened to a halt in front of them, and Barton jumped out.

"You drive," he commanded, brandishing his crossbow at Rapp as he circled around the car to the passenger side door. "I'll shoot."

Rapp and Romanoff sprinted to the car and, seconds later, they were roaring off in Tarif's wake.

* * *

Possibly my favorite chapter! Thoughts?


	13. THE END

Barton ducked back through the passenger side window. "I can't get a clear shot!" he snarled, glaring at Rapp.

"Well, hang on!" Rapp twisted the wheel wildly to avoid a tree.

Tarif was leading them on a fast-paced, winding chase through the forest. The car jolted crazily over roots, flattened undergrowth, and wove around thick tree trunks.

Romanoff bounced up and down in the backseat, catching glimpses of bright red taillights through the windshield. Something tugged at the back of her mind, and she frowned. There was something odd about the way Tarif had acted when he'd left the building, and she couldn't pinpoint what it was. She closed her eyes, replaying the moment in her head, analyzing his movements.

He'd been walking quickly through the forest. Rapp had cocked his gun, and he'd started running. Why had he only started running _after_ Rapp cocked his gun? Why not before? Unless… unless he hadn't realized he was being followed until that point. But if he hadn't been aware of them, why had he left in such a hurry? Unless…

Romanoff's heart jolted, and she opened her eyes.

"Stop the car."

Rapp and Barton glanced at her in surprise.

"Why?" Rapp asked.

Romanoff clenched her fists. "I said stop the car!" she snapped.

"Do what she says," Barton said quietly.

Rapp hesitated, eyes glued to Tarif's taillights.

"You have to stop the car, turn around, and go back," Romanoff said tautly.

Again Rapp hesitated. "If I do that, we'll lose him."

Romanoff lurched forward and gripped his armrest. "I SAID STOP THE DAMN CAR!" she shouted in his ear.

Rapp stopped the car.

Romanoff sat back and closed her eyes as Rapp painstakingly turned the car around in the thick wood and started back towards the party. She could feel Barton's gaze on her, but she didn't speak.

Rapp broke the tense silence. "What's going on?"

"I should've realized," Romanoff muttered. "He's not running from us. He set a trap. He's trying to get out before he gets caught in it."

"Nat?" Barton said softly.

Romanoff shook her head, squeezing her hands agitatedly. "Just hurry," she said to Rapp. "I just hope we're not too late."

They pulled up behind the building minutes later. Romanoff got out immediately began sprinting around to the front. She could hear Rapp's and Barton's rapid footsteps behind her, and she took short breaths of the cool air as her heart pounded.

Romanoff charged into the main room.

"Everyone, could I have your attention please!" she shouted, raising a hand for silence. "This building is rigged with explosives. If we don't get out now, everyone here will die, now let's get moving, come on!"

The hush that had fallen as she spoke immediately gave way to panicked cries and shouts as, with one accord, the partygoers flooded toward the exits. Chairs squeaked as people got up, jabbering frantically as they tripped over each other to get the the doors. A sense of urgency pervaded the space, and Romanoff rushed to help people leave the building.

Rapp appeared at Romanoff's elbow as she assisted an elderly woman in rising. "Nat, are you sure?"

"Yep," she said shortly, rushing to help a woman with a baby.

Within a few minutes, the crowd had evacuated the building, and Romanoff helped Rapp usher them a safe distance away. Waves of adrenaline kept surging through her; the building would explode at any second. She cast her gaze across the crowd, and suddenly her heart plummeted.

She whirled to face Rapp. "Where's Barton?"

Rapp frowned, his eyes traveling across the sea of people. Romanoff whipped her head to look at the building, chest thudding.

"Natasha. Just—" Rapp raised one hand in warning and lifted the other to his ear. "Barton, what's your twenty?"

"Making a final sweep of the building," Barton said over the comms.

Romanoff raised a finger to her comm unit. "Barton, you need to get the hell out of there," she said urgently, taking a few restless steps toward the structure. "We don't know when that thing's gonna go up in smoke."

"Yeah, just gimme a sec," Barton said distractedly.

Romanoff waited, heart throbbing, staring fixedly at the door until it opened and Barton came running out of the building towards them. She released the breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"Is everyone out of the building?" she demanded as he reached her.

He nodded.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Good." Romanoff turned back to the people, some of whom were still retreating from the structure while others pressed closer, watching the building expectantly. Several people had their phones out and were filming it.

"Everyone, stay back!" Romanoff ordered. "This place is gonna blow any second now!" She whirled, gazing apprehensively at the building, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Doubtful whispering washed through the crowd when the building continued to remain intact. Romanoff gritted her teeth. They would think it was safe. They would think it was a joke. They might even start to head back inside for the belongings they'd left in their rush to get out.

"Stay back," she repeated.

"Natasha?" Rapp said in her ear.

"Just wait," she snapped, eyes fixed on the structure.

Silence continued to reign as they all waited, some faces more anxious than others. Romanoff shifted her weight impatiently from foot to foot.

Rapp cleared his throat. "Nat," he began, "maybe—"

The building exploded.

Blind panic ensued as the building blazed and flaming debris was hurled in every direction. Now that the danger was a reality, everyone began pushing past each other, full-out running to reach their cars amid the scattered screaming.

In the midst of the chaos, Romanoff and Barton locked eyes.

Barton's mouth formed the words _Let's go,_ and Romanoff nodded.

"The police are bound to show up," Rapp said, straining to be heard above the ruckus. "Should we stick around and explain the situation?"

"No, let Comms deal with it," Romanoff said. "We're done here."

She looked at Barton again, but he had turned away.

"Come on," she said. "Let's see if our car's still in one piece."

 **.** **.** **.** **.** **.**

"Well, that concludes the debriefing," Coulson was saying. "We'll keep tracking Tarif and keep you all informed. Thank you."

Barton and Kennedy stood up. Romanoff leaned over to say something to Rapp, and Barton pivoted, stalking out of the room.

His mind was too full to sleep yet, so he turned his steps towards the report offices instead. He scowled at the floor as he slouched down the hallway, hands stuffed in his pockets.

He didn't allow himself to think yet. His thoughts were too painful. He struggled to keep his mind blank as he entered an empty report office. He found a blank report sheet, sat down at a desk, and fished a pen out of the desk drawer.

But his thoughts were harsh and persistent, and he was only able to suppress them for so long before they came flooding through.

She had looked beautiful. Natasha Romanoff had looked so beautiful that he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her all night. And she always looked beautiful when she dressed up like that. Hell, even when she _wasn't_ dressed up, she was a stunner. But what had made it so much harder tonight was that he was totally, irreversibly, hopelessly in love with her.

When he had first seen her that night—Barton's chest constricted at the memory. She and Rapp had been so close. And he hadn't been sure whether they were in earnest or simply rehearsing for their covers, but it hadn't mattered. It would have hurt either way, to see them like that.

And then their words to each other later on… _There's someone I care about a lot,_ Rapp had said. _I think you know who I mean._

 _The person you love is a weakness,_ Natasha had later said.

 _Do you have a weakness?_ Rapp had asked.

And she'd smiled at him.

 _Maybe one._

And then there was their kiss later on. Cover or no cover, that had felt like a slap in the face.

 _Sniper on an undercover mission, my ass,_ Barton thought. _I was the chaperone on Rapp and Natasha's SHIELD-issued first date. Sponsored by Jehu Tarif._

He scowled down at the page, clenching his pen tightly in his hand.

 _There's someone I care about a lot…_

 _Do you have a weakness?—Maybe one._

 _Too late, Barton. Too damn late._

"Mission report?"

Natasha's voice from the doorway behind him made his heart leap, and not just because he was startled. He hurriedly scribbled his name and the date at the top of his page, trying to give the impression that he'd been working the whole time as Natasha walked into the room.

"I'm surprised. I don't think you've ever done one of those things the same day."

"Thought I'd get this one out of the way," Barton said without looking up. He didn't want to dwell on the details of this job any longer than he had to.

"Hm."

Natasha stopped beside the desk, directly on his left. She suddenly reached across him, and his pen froze on the page. She was closer to him than she'd been all night as she snagged a blank report sheet and stepped back again, leaving a hint of perfume on the air. And suddenly all he could think about was _Natasha._ Natasha frowning and tilting her head at him in the lobby. Natasha laughing in the car with her hair over one shoulder. Natasha glancing at him in the rearview mirror. Natasha gazing seriously at him with the explosion reflected in her eyes, the orange light making her hair glow like it was on fire…

" _Not that I_ love _Agent Barton… we're just friends."_

His jaw tightened. He could never be with her. Having her so close to him was torture; _she_ was torture. She was standing quietly beside him; he could feel her gaze on him, and he couldn't focus.

Barton gritted his teeth, steeling himself, then finally looked up at her. She, like himself, had not yet changed since they returned to HQ, and was still in the long, light purple dress with her hair tumbling down her shoulder in shining waves. Her green eyes were serious and expectant, searching his face so deeply that he almost got lost in them.

Barton swallowed.

"Yes?" he said coldly.

Natasha's eyebrow lifted, and her eyes dropped downward. The desk drawer bumped his stomach, and he looked down, realizing suddenly that she'd been waiting for him to move so that she could open it.

"All you had to do was ask," he growled, leaning back so she could tug the drawer open. She took out a pen and slid the drawer shut, but continued to stand there, watching him silently as he scribbled vaguely at his report sheet.

At length, he sighed and threw his pen down, looking up at her again. "What now?" he snapped.

She was peering at him from under a furrowed brow. "Is everything okay?" she asked softly.

Her tone was so gentle and sincere that some of the resentful ice inside him melted from warm fondness—she really cared how he was doing. But suddenly an image flashed through his mind: Rapp nuzzling Natasha's cheek, whispering in her ear. His insides hardened, and he heard himself laugh, a harsh, mirthless sound, as he rubbed his face in his hands, conflicting emotions churning through him.

"Great," he grunted. "Just great."

"Barton." She slid into the seat next to him, and he glared determinedly at his page. "Look, I know it sucks that you were assigned sniping—"

"What? No. Sniping's great," he cut in. He could feel a scowl slipping across his face. "Dunno why you think something's wrong. Everything's great." He forced himself to meet her eyes again, trying to give the impression of honesty.

Her face was much closer now than it had been when she was standing, and his breath snagged in his throat. She was still frowning quizzically at him, her eyes catching the light as they flicked across his face, and her lips parted like she wanted to speak but didn't know how.

And suddenly, Barton didn't care what the consequences might be. He wanted to grab her and kiss her, pull her onto his lap and show her how in love with her he was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was telling him how foolish that would be, and he struggled to cling to that thought.

And then, abruptly, before he had time to change his mind, he pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet.

"I'm really tired," he announced, as she frowned up at him. "I'll finish up later."

And he strode from the room.

* * *

Sorry for the wait - I had some trouble with this last scene here.

If you're enjoying this story, shoot me a quick review - it really helps with my motivation! :) Love you all and thanks for reading!


	14. HURT

"Listen, I'm not saying the food here isn't great," Rapp was saying.

It was almost noon, and they were relaxing in one of the lounge areas. Rapp was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and Romanoff was slouched on a sofa with her feet propped on the coffee table. Kennedy sat in a chair nearby, typing rapidly on her laptop.

Romanoff smirked. "You can just come out and say it. The food here isn't great."

"Well, I wasn't gonna say anything," Rapp said, grinning.

"It's fine for a while, but eventually, you just need _real_ food."

"Exactly," Rapp agreed. "So what I'm thinking is, we should all go out for lunch today. My treat."

"Who's 'we'?" Romanoff said quickly.

Rapp gestured around the room. "The three of us, and Barton."

Romanoff nodded slowly. "Okay… I think I'd be up for that. Kennedy?"

Kennedy shook her head. "I don't think so. It's looking like Tarif's gonna make his next move tomorrow, so I have to coordinate the mission plans."

Romanoff frowned. "Tomorrow? He just bombed a building last night; I would've thought he'd lie low for a while."

"I know. I thought so, too," Kennedy said, looking up. "Could be false intel again, but we need to check it out either way."

Romanoff nodded thoughtfully.

"Sure you can't take a break?" Rapp asked Kennedy.

She smiled at him. "I don't think so, no. Thanks for asking."

"How about Barton?" Rapp addressed Romanoff.

Romanoff blinked. "Oh. Uh… no idea."

"Would you mind asking him for me?" Rapp asked, glancing at his watch and stepping away from the wall. "I gotta talk to Stansfield."

"Oh," Romanoff said vaguely. She hadn't seen Barton all day, and part of her did want to see him—not for any particular reason, just to spend time in his presence. But things had ended awkwardly between them the night before, not to even mention the tension that had been building between them for the past couple of days. And part of her quailed at the thought of approaching him.

"I'm… not sure where he is right now," she began weakly.

"He's in the shooting range," Kennedy said helpfully.

"Oh," Romanoff reminded them. She took her feet off the coffee table and sat up, feeling somehow eager and anxious at the same time. "I… guess I could ask him."

"Great, thanks," Rapp said, leaning on the back of Kennedy's chair. "Let me know what he says."

"Okay," Romanoff said, heading for the door. "I'll talk to him."

She didn't see Rapp and Kennedy high-five behind her back.

 **.** **.** **.** **.** **.**

The majority of SHIELD personnel was swarming to the cafeteria for the lunch hour, so Barton was the only one left in the shooting range. Romanoff stoof back for a minute, watching him send his slim arrows speeding into the moving targets. She'd never told him, but she enjoyed watching him shoot. The large muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled with every movement, and she could see his back muscles working through his thin, sweaty tank. She tracked the deft motion of his agile fingers as he released each arrow, the practiced shifting of his posture as he aimed. His hair and clothing were soaked with perspiration, and her gaze trailed over the strong angle of his jaw and his glistening nape.

 _Alright, Romanoff, get moving,_ she chided herself. _You can't stand here ogling his biceps all week._

Determinedly, she strode up behind him in the booth. It was roughly thirty square feet inside, so there was just enough room for her to stand without getting elbowed when he drew back the bowstring.

She waited, feet planted slightly apart, arms crossed, as he spent the last few arrows in his hip quiver.

Finally, he let the bowstring relax and lowered his bow. He took off his safety glasses and surveyed the row of perfectly impaled targets, shoulders heaving as he panted from the exertion. He turned around and saw her.

He frowned and removed his headphones. "Hey."

"Hey," she responded. She eyed him critically as he hung his headgear on the wall, then proceeded to unstrap his quiver. He seemed annoyed, just as he had last night, but somehow she sensed that she wasn't the cause of his anger.

"Rapp sent me to ask you something," she said, a bit tentatively.

His frown darkened. "Yeah?" he grunted. He snatched a cloth from the wall and began pressing it to his damp face and neck.

Romanoff watched him quietly for a minute. "He's offered to take us to lunch. Are you in?"

He grunted again, examining his bowstring. "I don't know."

"Come on," Romanoff persisted, trying to make her voice light. Trying to pretend that everything felt perfectly normal between them. "Kennedy already backed out, you can't, too." She hesitated, biting her lip, then added, "I really wish you'd come."

Without warning, Barton turned and reached for her, and her heart leapt in her chest.

Barton froze with his hand inches from her elbow, looking quizzically at her. "What?"

"What?" she repeated, trying to sound casual.

"I'm just grabbing my wax," he said.

Romanoff looked down. A stick of bowstring wax sat on an outcropping shelf next to her right elbow.

"I know," she lied, meeting his eyes again.

Slowly, Barton drew back. His steel-gray eyes studied her face, and there was something in his expression… _hurt._ Romanoff swallowed, disconcerted by his searching gaze, but unable or unwilling to look away.

"You flinched," Barton spoke up.

"What?" Romanoff said innocently.

Barton folded his arms. "When I reached toward you, you flinched."

"No, I didn't," Romanoff fibbed.

Barton didn't move.

Romanoff plucked nervously at her shirtsleeve. The truth was, when he'd stretched his arm towards her, she'd thought he was going to take her hand, or perhaps touch her waist. And the idea had made a thrill roll through her like nothing she'd ever felt before. She didn't know what it meant, but she certainly wasn't going to tell him about it.

She scratched uncomfortably at the back of her hand. "It surprised me," she murmured.

Barton narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly, taking a step back. "Uh-huh."

Romanoff gnawed at her lip again, willing herself not to break eye contact. "So, uh…" she continued awkwardly. "You gonna come?"

"Natasha," Barton said suddenly, stepping forward. He was now standing quite close to her, his eyes fixed on her with sudden intensity. Romanoff shifted her gaze downward, feeling oddly shy under his scrutiny.

Barton sighed. "You can probably tell I'm pissed right now. But… you know I'm not mad at _you_ right? It's just 'cause… there's a lot going on right now."

"I figured," Romanoff said quietly, venturing to meet his eyes again.

Barton nodded slowly, eyes locked with hers. He took a deep breath and shifted from foot to foot.

"But… even if I _was_ mad at you… you know I'd never do anything to hurt you, right?"

Romanoff winced and looked away, guilt tugging at her. Clearly she had given him the wrong impression. "That's not—I didn't—" she began, but Barton cut her off.

"Natasha. Look at me."

Reluctantly, she met his serious eyes. He angled his head for a better view of her face, waiting for her response.

"I'm not afraid of you," she tried to explain, then inwardly cringed at how shaky and unconvincing the words had sounded. Hurt registered in Barton's face again. Emotions were surging through her; he was standing so close to her and gazing at her with such solemn earnestness, and she was struggling to keep a cool exterior.

"You have no reason to be," Barton said quietly. "I'm not trying to scare you, Tasha."

Romanoff chewed fretfully at her lower lip, trying to think of a way to persuade him that she wasn't afraid without explaining what had really happened.

And then Barton really did reach for her.

Gently, his warm hand closed around her shoulder, and her stomach flipped over. She tried to remember the last time they'd touched—it had been when he'd grabbed her arm, right before her sparring match with Rapp. It hadn't been long ago, but somehow it felt like months.

"See," Barton said softly. "Even if I was mad at you, I'd never harm you. Hell, I'd hurt _myself_ before I hurt you."

His gaze was deep and steady, his voice low and gentle. Romanoff felt warm and tingly all over; she found that, again, she couldn't meet his eyes, and she looked away. The silence stretched on, and Barton's thumb started stroking her shoulder, slow and measured and even. Romanoff swallowed.

"So, um," she stammered, a little breathless. "Do you think you'll come?"

Barton paused. Then his hand slipped down her arm, and he took a step back. The warmth of his touch lingered on her shoulder.

"No," he said finally. "Think I'll stay here."

Romanoff watched as he turned to pick up his bow again. And suddenly, the magnitude of what she was feeling came rushing back, and she felt lightheaded. She had to get away, find somewhere to think about this.

"Okay," she muttered. "I'll, uh—I'll go tell him."

And she hurried away.

* * *

That last scene is, to me, one of the most out-of-character scenes. Unfortunately, it's also one of my favorites, and I see it as a defining moment of this fic, so I couldn't bring myself to cut it.

Please forgive the slight character deviation and pretend there is some universe in which this scene could maybe happen. :)


	15. FRICTION

"Natasha."

Romanoff blinked. Rapp's head swam into focus, harshly illuminated by the bright sunlight that streamed through the window next to the table.

Rapp tilted his head at her. "Something on your mind?"

"Oh, uh…" Romanoff looked down at her untouched food. "Nothing in particular."

"Really? Because you're not eating, and that's the third time you've zoned out in the past five minutes," Rapp told her.

Romanoff sighed and rubbed her forehead. Maybe it would help to talk about it, or at least about part of it. Perhaps Rapp could even give her advice. She dropped her eyes and rested her arms on the table.

"It's Barton," she said finally. "He just… he hasn't been himself lately. And things have been weird and confusing and…" She sighed. Shook her head.

"How so?" Rapp asked.

She shrugged and shook her head again. "I don't know, I just…" She exhaled and ran her fingers through her hair. "It's just been strange between us. Different. He's been distant and… and irritable, and I'm afraid it's partly my fault. I just haven't spent a lot of time with him for the past few days, which is not normal for us, and—I'm not boring you, am I?" she interrupted herself, looking up.

He shook his head. "No. Don't worry about that. I can tell you need to talk about this."

"Okay. I just… I don't know. It's been… awkward."

"Hm." Rapp sat back and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Well, I think you should talk to him."

Romanoff lowered her head, twisting her mouth to one side. "I don't know. Whenever I try to do that, it… doesn't go well."

Rapp shrugged and crossed his arms behind his head. "Well, things aren't going to get better if you do nothing. You wanna fix this, you have to take action."

Romanoff nodded slowly. He had a point; in fact, ordinarily, she probably would've tried this approach much earlier. But her feelings towards Barton lately had been anything but ordinary.

"So I should talk to him," she repeated, steeling her resolve.

"As soon as possible," Rapp advised. "Only way to stop things from getting worse."

A strange dichotomy of apprehension and anticipation was rising. Suddenly hungry, Romanoff turned her attention to her food, and Rapp looked on with approval.

 **.** **.** **.** **.** **.**

But when they returned to HQ, Barton wasn't there. Romanoff checked the gym, the shooting range, his room, all his usual hangout spots, before thinking to ask Coulson. Barton had gone with a small recon team to check up on an unlikely tip and wasn't expected back until the evening. In the meantime, Romanoff wandered around the base, spending time with Rapp, planning what she would say to Barton when he got back.

Dinner came and went and Barton still hadn't returned. Maybe Romanoff should've been worried, but she wasn't. Based on what Coulson had said, the op was hilariously low-risk, and Barton was only along for his surveillance expertise. She had confidence in his abilities, besides which she was too busy stressing over what to _say_ to him to stress over _him._

It was after nine-thirty when she heard that he was back. According to Agent Mayer, who had been part of the recon team, he was in the report office. Romanoff headed down the empty hall towards the office, still rehearsing how she would begin as he apprehension rose.

When she was within thirty paces of the door, she heard voices issuing from within.

"I'm just trying to help, Clint," Kennedy was saying.

"Leave me alone," Barton growled.

Romanoff slowed her steps, wondering if she should come back later.

"I just think you need to get this off your chest," Kennedy said.

"I said I don't wanna talk about it," Barton returned.

Kennedy sighed. "Well, that's your choice. But if you change your mind, I'm here."

Barton muttered something in reply, but Romanoff didn't catch the words.

"That may be the case," Kennedy said. "My offer stands regardless."

Footsteps sounded inside the room. Then Kennedy opened the door.

 _Dammit, Widow._

"Romanoff!" Kennedy said in surprise.

Behind her, Barton lifted his head.

Romanoff feigned a smile, hoping it wasn't obvious that she'd been eavesdropping. "Hi, I was just looking for Barton. But if you're in the middle of something—"

"Oh, no," Kennedy said quickly. She glanced over her shoulder at him. "I think we're done here. He's all yours." She slipped past Romanoff and vanished down the hallway.

Slowly, Romanoff edged into the room. Barton was sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed, and Romanoff didn't like the way he was looking at her. His jaw was set stubbornly, and something in his eyes suggested that he was ready to disagree with anything and everything she had to say.

Romanoff cleared her throat and glanced at the door. "What was that all about?" she asked. If she were honest, she didn't really expect Barton to confide in her, not with how things had been lately. But she wasn't sure where to begin, and she had to break the silence.

(She was definitely _not_ stalling.)

"Nothing," Barton said, predictably.

Romanoff bit her lip and nodded. "So how was, uh. Recon?"

Barton glared down at his report sheet and scribbled rapidly at it. "Fine," he grunted.

Romanoff took another step forward, absently brushing the tabletop with her palm. She pointed at his paper, then nervously scratched the back of her neck. "Mission report?"

Barton's pen slowed on the page, and he raised scowling eyes to her face. "What do you want?" he demanded.

 _Definitely not a good time._

Romanoff took a step back. "You know what, um… it can wait." She started for the door.

"Wait."

Romanoff turned. Barton's head was lowered, and she could see that he felt guilty.

"I'm…" He sighed and scratched his forehead, still not looking up. "Go ahead and tell me."

Romanoff hesitated. "Well—I know you're busy right now—"

"No, really, just—"

"No, I know, I know," she broke in hastily. "I just, uh… But when you're done, I was wondering if you'd want to grab a coffee or something."

Barton froze, staring at her.

Romanoff chewed her lip, running her fingers across the table. "I just… feel like we have a lot to catch up on."

Barton blinked. Twice.

"Oh! Um…" He cleared his throat. His voice sounded much different now. "You would, uh… would you'd—wanna do that?" he stammered.

Romanoff nodded artlessly.

"Okay, um—" Barton let out an awkward laugh and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Would _you_ wanna do that?" Romanoff countered.

"Oh no yeah, I guess. Sure, okay," Barton stumbled. "I mean yeah, probably definitely. Totally, yes."

Romanoff's lips curled into a small smile at how familiar he sounded. "Okay…"

"Okay," Barton repeated. "Sure you wouldn't rather go with _Rapp?"_ he added, with something like a sneer.

Romanoff smiled and shrugged. "He already turned in anyway, so I can't."

Frown lines emerged on Barton's forehead. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah," Romanoff went on, confused by his abrupt change in tone. "He wanted to rest up for our op tomorrow."

Barton's frown deepened, and he sat back in his chair again. "Uh-huh," he grunted.

Romanoff frowned, bewildered. Barton's good mood was vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"So I'm your second choice," Barton spat.

"What? _Ohh."_ Romanoff hurriedly shook her head. "That's not—"

"No, it's fine, I get it," Barton growled. "You have to spend time with him so you can get to know him better, or something. It's fine. It's _logical."_

His tone was scalding, and hot irritation prickled at Romanoff's scalp. She crossed her arms, trying to keep her temper in check. "No, it's like I said. I wanted to go with _you_ so we can talk."

" _And_ because you _couldn't_ go with _him,"_ Barton snarled.

Romanoff sighed and dropped her head. "You know, honestly, I've been worried this would happen since day one. Look. I know we're used to being together, on and off the field. But there's no need to be jealous, I—"

"Jealous!" Barton cut in. He let out a hard laugh. "Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I'm not jealous."

"Then you do a fantastic impression of it," Romanoff said sharply.

Barton snorted. "You're delusional.

Romanoff could feel blood rushing to her head, and her hands were closing into fists. His tone, his expression, even the way he was sitting—everything about him was just so _provoking._ She struggled to maintain her composure.

"It's okay to admit it," she began.

"Nothing to admit."

"You've been acting off ever since Rapp got here—" ("That's an exaggeration—") "—and I know he and I have been hanging out quite a bit—" ("Tch! Try quite a _lot!")_

"And, honestly, it's understandable," Romanoff pressed on. "I _might_ have even tried to take it as a compliment, if _you_ hadn't started—"

"Lay off, will you!" Barton snapped.

Romanoff started back. Hearing her own harsh words thrown back at her like that felt like a slap in the face. Barton was staring belligerently at her, and she felt a scowl forming on her brow.

"I said I was sorry about that, you know," she said.

Barton raised his eyes to the ceiling and tapped at his chin. "If I remember right, you never actually said the words _I'm sorry."_

Romanoff huffed and crossed her arms, anger boiling in her stomach. "Fine. I'm sorry. Happy?"

"Can't say that I am, no," Barton returned.

Romanoff dropped her head back. " _God,_ you're such a jackass!"

"And now you've resorted to name-calling," Barton said scathingly.

Romanoff leaned across the table on her palms. "What's your problem, Barton?"

"Problem? Maybe _you're_ the problem. Everything was perfectly fine before you came through that door and started yelling at me!"

"That's not what it sounded like to me!" Romanoff barked.

"Know what I think?" Barton put in. "I think _you're_ the one who's jealous. You're just pissed cause you weren't invited on the recon job!"

Romanoff stared at him. "Okay, surely _now_ you can see how stupid you're being! You think I'm _upset_ I missed that? Hell, if anything, I'm _relieved!_ Those things are a goddamn nuisance; _tell_ me you're joking!"

"So what?" Barton shot back.

Romanoff raised an eyebrow. "'So what'? You're not making any sense! I swear you don't even—you've been in a crappy mood for days!"

"Oh, so _I'm_ the one who's in a crappy mood!"

"Look, what's your point?" Romanoff demanded. "You just keep throwing insults around, and I still haven't got a clue what you're talking about. What are you trying to prove, do you even—What's your goddamn point?"

"No!" Barton yelled.

Romanoff glowerd. "'No'? Your point is 'no'? That isn't—that doesn't—'No' to what?"

"Well, what's _your_ point?" Barton retorted.

Romanoff folded her arms. "My point is that you're acting like a child—as per usual, I might add! And I don't know what _your_ point is, but you're doing a stellar job proving mine!"

Barton's eyes blazed. "I thought we were getting coffee."

"I thought so, too." Romanoff stepped back from the table. "Clearly we were both wrong."

"Clearly!" Barton snapped.

Romanoff set her hands on her hips. "Have any more insults for me, or can I leave now?"

"You can damn well leave," Barton growled.

"Fine," Romanoff huffed. "I'm leaving."

And she stormed out the door.

* * *

I tried so hard to fix that first scene, but eventually just accepted that it was crappy and decided to post anyway. :P

Just past the halfway mark now! And we've reached the most dramatic section of the story. Stay tuned... :)


	16. TELL

Barton was having a bad day.

Or, more accurately, a bad _week._ Ever since the undercover op, he'd been _marinating_ in bitterness. Everything about Rapp and Natasha's behavior and conversation that night suggested that there were feelings between them: Their proximity in the lobby. Their familiar teasing on the ride out. Their discussion about love and weakness. Rapp calling Natasha 'Nat'. Natasha's insistence that she and 'Agent Barton' were 'just friends'.

And now the question had been tormenting him: If Rapp hadn't come along, would _he_ have had a chance with Natasha?

Seeing the person he cared about most shrink away when he'd reached toward her had done nothing to improve his mood either. He'd stayed calm, knowing that had been when she'd needed, but inside, he'd been horrified. He hated that she'd thought, even for a second, that he would lay a finger on her. He hated himself for having given that impression in any way, shape or form. He would never hurt her, _could_ never hurt her. He hated the wide-eyed look on her face, the shakiness in her voice, her obvious discomfort in his presence.

It hadn't been until after she'd left the shooting range that it had occurred to him what he'd done: He'd set Rapp and Natasha up for a lunch date. And they wouldn't just be eating lunch together, like they always did anyway. They would be at a restaurant. Alone.

The realization that he'd essentially set up their second date irked him to no end. He'd been relieved at the chance to escape the base for a few hours in the form of a recon job… at first. But their destination had been hours away, and it was rainy and muddy and cold. And the tip hadn't even paid off. The operation had left him even more disgruntled than before, and a good deal wetter and muddier.

When he'd returned, Kennedy had sensed his mood and had tried to talk to him, but he hadn't felt like talking.

Then Natasha had come in.

And, when he'd first seen her, he'd remembered the reason for his frustration. There had been a moment where he'd thought it had lifted, then it had come crashing down again, all the worse for having been alleviated, however briefly.

Then they had fought. And he'd forgotten how beautiful she was when she was angry. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes blazed, her dimple made quick little appearances as she shouted. Even in the midst of their yelling, the desire to kiss her had been driving him mad. Once or twice, she had been ranting, and he hadn't heard a word she'd said because he'd been focused on her lips rather than the words coming out of them. He'd had to improvise responses, and none too skillfully. The whole encounter had left him confused and aggravated, if not slightly turned on.

Barton buried his face in his hands and exhaled. Kennedy was right. He needed to talk about this. He waited until Natasha's footsteps had faded, then he stood and stalked out of the room.

Kennedy was in Office 3M, which had been set up as an unofficial coordination office for the Tarif mission. The screen on the wall showed a map highlighting Tarif's hit locations, and several files were scattered across the table. Kennedy stood by the table with her back to the door, fiddling with her phone.

"Kennedy?" Barton said, striding into the room.

Kennedy turned expectantly.

Barton took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Look, about earlier."

"Don't worry about it, Clint," Kennedy said quickly. "I know you were under a lot of stress."

He shook his head. "Still not an excuse for snapping at you like that. I—I'm sorry."

"No harm done," Kennedy replied.

Barton rubbed his face with one hand. "Also… you were right. I do need to get this off my chest. If you're still offering?" he added

Kennedy hesitated. "Oh… actually, can it wait?" She held up her phone. "I'm expecting a call."

"Oh—of course." Barton took a step back.

"I'm sorry, Clint. Really, I am," Kennedy said, tilting her head. "It's an important call."

"No need to apologize," Barton assured her.

"Maybe once I'm done, we could talk?" Kennedy suggested.

Barton shook his head. "Thanks, but… I think for now I'll find another outlet," he said, and Kennedy nodded.

Barton moved slowly down the hall, his mind working quickly. As time went on, the need to vent to someone was growing stronger, and he tried to think of someone who would be willing to listen. On an impulse, he pulled his phone from his pocket and began dialing Pepper's number. She knew him well, worked late hours, and, just a couple weeks ago, had encouraged him to call her if he ever needed anything. Perhaps he could open up to her.

Barton was stepping into the elevator when Pepper answered.

"Clint! Hi, what's up?" she said cheerfully, sounding remarkably alert for the hour.

"Pepper, hi," Barton said. "I was wondering if I could borrow your ear for a minute."

"Of course. Is something wrong?" she asked quickly.

"Nothing serious," Barton said. "I'm sorry to bother you so late, but… I had to talk to someone. Quite frankly, I'm at my wit's end." He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

"What's going on?" Pepper asked, as the elevator opened.

Barton started down the hall toward his sleep room. "It's about… Natasha."

"Well, I figured," Pepper said briskly.

Barton frowned as he rounded a corner. "You did?"

Pepper chuckled. "Why else would you be talking to me instead of her?"

Barton sighed again, letting himself into his room. "Yeah… I guess you're right.

"So, what's wrong?" Pepper continued.

Barton took a deep breath and rested his forehead on the door, closing his eyes. He didn't know how to preface this. And he was sick of dancing around his feelings, trying to pretend they weren't there, or were something else entirely. He trusted Pepper, and he was sure she would know what to do if he told her, so he decided to just come right out and say it, to voice his most private feelings for the first time.

"I'm in love with her," he said quietly.

Pepper was silent for a moment. Then he heard her chuckle.

"Finally figured it out, have you?" she said.

Barton blinked in surprise. "Wait—what?"

"Well, we've all known for _ages,_ Clint," Pepper said, in a voice that was trying to be gentle but was more gleeful than anything else. "And, as a side note, Tony now owes me. Big time."

Barton smiled a little and moved to his bed. It was relieving to be taken seriously, to be encouraged, and especially, to be affirmed in what he already knew to be true. But, more than anything else, his thoughts and feelings were still in turmoil—he needed to talk about this.

"I don't know what to do, Pepper," he said, collapsing onto the mattress. "I'm losing my mind. I just had a fight with her, and…" He paused as her face flashed through his mind, angry and streaked with passion. He groaned quietly and kneaded his forehead. "I don't know how to explain it. She's driving me distracted. You've got to help me."

"I'm not sure I understand the problem," Pepper said. "You've finally realized how you feel about her—you need to tell her."

Barton exhaled and raked a hand through his hair. "Right, I forgot to tell you. There's this Central Intelligence agent who's staying here, and… I think there's something between them. They spend a lot of time together, and I think she's into him."

"Well, has she _told_ you she's into him?" Pepper asked.

Barton paused. "I mean… Not straight out, no."

"So you don't _know_ there's something there."

Barton frowned. "I guess I'm not _positive…"_

"Then there's your answer," Pepper said. "If it's at all possible that you have a chance, you need to tell her."

Barton blinked, surprised at how simple the answer was when they talked it through.

"And… if she doesn't feel the same way?" he couldn't help asking.

"That's a risk you'll have to take," Pepper said, and he could hear her smiling. "But, from what I've seen, I'd say there's very small chance of that."

Hope started glowing inside him at her words, and he sat up. "Okay…" he said slowly.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go tell her!" Pepper urged him.

Barton froze. "Tell her? Right now?" he asked warily. Natasha's face flickered before his eyes again, and his insides quaked at the thought of telling her. Especially after their fight.

"Yes!" Pepper sounded excited. "You said yourself you don't know how things stand between her and this other agent. You need to tell her before it's too late."

 _Too late…_ All this time, he had thought it was _already_ too late. Pepper's confidence that it _wasn't_ gave Barton new hope. And new resolve.

"Okay," he said, getting up. "I'll tell her."

"Good luck, Clint," Pepper said.

"Thanks, Pepper. I mean it," Barton said. "Thanks for everything."

"You're welcome, Clint. I hope it goes well."

"Yeah, so do I," Barton said.

He hung up and left the room.

* * *

Ahha this also feels a bit ooc, but I'm trying to overlook that as much as possible at this point. :P

Anyhow, the plot continues to thicken, and we are smack dab in the middle of one of the central conflicts. Hope you're enjoying!


	17. RELATIONSHIPS

"Nat?" Barton knocked on Natasha's door. Silence met his approach, and Barton realized that she most likely wasn't in there. He tried knocking once more with no results, then headed to the elevators. She was probably still upstairs.

On the short ride up to the third floor, Barton tried to figure out what he would say to her. Obviously, he was going to have to start with an apology—in the heat of the argument, he'd said some pretty hurtful things that he hadn't even meant. After that, he had no idea.

The third floor had emptied now. The hallways were dark and echo-y, as most SHIELD personnel had either gone home or to bed. As Barton headed down the central corridor, a lounge area ahead of him caught his eye. The room was lit, and golden light spilled out of the glass wall.

And Natasha was huddled on a couch facing the door, her face buried in her hands.

Barton's heart ached as he quickened his footsteps. Her shoulders were hunched with emotion, and her hair curtained her cheeks. Barton could only think of one reason why she would be upset—because of their fight. His words must have hurt her more than he'd realized, he thought, with a pang of self-loathing.

Hesitantly, he entered the lounge.

"Hey," he said softly.

Natasha didn't look up.

Cautiously, he moved forward and sat down next to her. She sniffed a little and turned her head away.

 _Is she crying?_

The guilt and self-loathing resurfaced, stronger than before. He had made Natasha cry. Natasha never cried.

Slowly, tentatively, Barton slipped his arm around her. She didn't object, so he pulled her closer, gently rubbing her shoulder.

"Shh," he whispered. "It's okay."

She sniffed again and carefully lowered her head onto his shoulder, which he took as a good sign.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I really am. I'm so, so sorry."

He continued to rub her shoulder for a moment, but gradually, he realized that something was… not quite right. The way she felt as she leaned into him was just _off_ somehow, and his arm around her back felt wrong. He turned to kiss the top of her head, and her hair smelled different.

That was when it hit him.

This wasn't Natasha at all.

It was _Kennedy._

 _Goddammit, Barton…_

Barton started to edge uncertainly away. He and Kennedy had grown a bit closer over her time here, but he wasn't sure how intimate their friendship was allowed to be, and he suddenly felt as though he was intruding where he wasn't necessarily wanted. "Do you want me to leave…?" he asked doubtfully, but Kennedy shook her head.

"Please stay," she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

Immediately, Barton moved back to her. Kennedy had always been there for him when he'd needed it, and now he had a chance to return the favor.

He continued stroking her arm for several minutes, listening as her breathing gradually evened out. He still couldn't believe he'd made the mistake of thinking she was Natasha. Sure, her face was hidden, but he'd just seen Kennedy not ten minutes earlier—why hadn't he paid attention to what she was wearing? Not to mention the fact that Kennedy's hair was a shade or two darker than Natasha's, closer to auburn. _Swell job, Barton, really nicely done…_

Finally, Kennedy straightened, and his arm slid off her shoulders. She gave him a small smile. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Are you okay?" Barton asked. "Is there anything I can do?"

Kennedy dropped her eyes. "Could I talk to you for a minute?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of course," Barton said instantly. He could always find Natasha later—Kennedy needed him _now._ And, as much as he hated to admit it, there was a part of him that was relieved by the interruption. He was a bit nervous about the conversation he was going to have with Natasha, and now he had a good excuse to delay it.

"What's going on?" he asked aloud.

Kennedy sighed. "I just got off the phone with my husband," she said. "Apparently, he's… seeing another woman."

Barton stared at her, shocked. "That's awful!"

Kennedy shrugged, looking resigned. "Maybe so, but I saw this coming a mile away. He and I are falling apart. There's no reason why he and someone else wouldn't fall together. I'm certainly not surprised, so I don't know why I'm so upset."

"No, you're right to be," Barton said. "He's being unfaithful."

"Yes, but I haven't exactly been very faithful either," Kennedy went on. "I've been so wrapped up in my work, I haven't spent any time with him lately. I probably drove him away."

"No, this isn't your fault," Barton said. "He's choosing to behave this way. He has no excuse."

Kennedy lowered her head. There was a short silence.

"So, what are you going to do?" Barton asked.

"I don't know. I don't know," Kennedy mumbled. "Just, keep soldiering on, I guess…"

Barton raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Irene… I don't know how to tell you this, but… I think you need to file for divorce."

Kennedy looked at him sharply. "No."

Barton sighed. "Look. He's cheating on you. And, from what I know of him, you deserve better than him."

"Maybe so, but…" Kennedy exhaled. "I've heard horror stories about the divorce process. I don't want to have to go through that. I just keep thinking, if we stick with it, we can work it out, things'll get better."

Barton shook his head. "Things aren't going to get better. They're already getting worse, surely you see that."

Kennedy dropped her head again. "I know. I know you're right." She sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead. "You went through a divorce, didn't you?" she asked abruptly, looking up. "What was your experience?"

"It was awful," Barton said frankly. "One of the worst experiences of my life."

Kennedy nodded, looking upset.

"It wasn't enjoyable," Barton continued. "But I'm glad I did it."

Kennedy stared down at her lap, nodding slowly.

"It was a hard decision," Barton said. "But it was the right one."

Kennedy hesitated. "Well… Flynn's a nice guy…"

"Laura's nice, too" Barton replied. "We just weren't right for each other."

"And… are you still friends?" Kennedy asked.

Barton squinted. "I'm not sure I'd go that far," he replied. "We're on good terms. We just don't see enough of each other anymore to be considered 'friends'."

"Do you still visit?" Kennedy asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

"I don't mind," Barton assured her. He was perfectly comfortable discussing his divorce, and perhaps doing so would help Kennedy grow accustomed to the idea for herself. "I have visited a couple times, mainly to see my kids."

Kennedy looked surprised. "I didn't know you had children."

"Three of them," Barton said, nodding. "Laura has custody of them. I do miss them sometimes, but I've made my peace with it. In our line of work, it is best to keep friends and family a secret—there's always the possibility of putting them in danger by association."

Kennedy nodded understandingly.

"So, I do see them occasionally, but I keep my visits few and far between," Barton said. "It's a part of my life I tend to keep pretty private. Not because I resent them, but so I can protect them."

Kennedy nodded again. Then her face grew serious, and Barton knew her mind had wandered back to her own situation. He sighed.

"Look, what I'm trying to say is, divorce is hard to go through, but sometimes it's for the best," he said. "Sometimes you can do everything right in a relationship, but it just… wasn't meant to be."

Kennedy sat back and sighed.

"Well… thanks for talking to me."

"No problem," Barton said, getting to his feet. "Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, if you think of anything, let me know," Barton said. "And good luck," he added, starting for the door.

"Thank you."

Barton paused in the doorway and turned, one hand on the doorframe. "Hey, uh… you haven't by any chance seen Natasha, have you?"

"Not recently."

Barton nodded. "Uh-huh. Well. Thanks anyway." He turned and started down the hallway.

Where had Natasha been this whole time? She didn't seem to be on this floor. She had been upset last time he'd seen her—maybe she'd gone down to the gym. She often liked to do something active as a way of blowing off steam. Barton stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button for the basement level. As the doors closed, he pressed the button for the second floor as well. Perhaps she had gone up to her room since he'd last checked.

The elevator doors opened, and Barton stepped out onto the second floor. He started moving noiselessly down the hallway, deep in thought.

He was nearing a curve when he heard a voice— _Natasha._ She was around the corner, right where he was headed.

"So, uh… thanks for that," Natasha was saying. "That was… good."

"My pleasure," said a second voice. _Rapp._ "Feeling better now?"

"Much better. That helped a lot."

"I'm glad," Rapp said. "And, hey… if you're ever feeling stressed in the future, I'd be more than happy to do this again."

Barton stopped, frowning. _I'm imagining this, right? Because it almost sounds like..._

He was within two feet of the corner. All it took was one step, and he was able to see around.

What he saw made his heart lurch.

Rapp and Natasha were embracing just outside Rapp's bedroom door. Rapp was shirtless, and Natasha was dressed in only a man's shirt—likely the one Rapp had taken off.

Too late.

Rapp drew back and gently brushed a lock of hair out of Natasha's face. "Get some sleep, Tasha," he murmured, and Barton's insides twisted.

With one last tender smile, Rapp retreated into his room and closed the door.

Natasha stood looking at the door for a long moment. At last, she turned, and her eyes fell on Barton. She froze, and her lips parted in surprise.

* * *

If you have a second, leave me a quick review! :) It doesn't have to be long or complicated, but I do like to hear from my readers occasionally - otherwise I feel like I'm talking to myself :P

In any case, I really do appreciate you all reading and I hope you're enjoying the story! :D


	18. PLAYBACK

_-EARLIER-_

The elevator doors slid open, and Romanoff charged out into the hall, burning rage coursing through her veins. Fragments of her fight with Barton kept whirling through her mind, still ringing fresh in her ears: ' _You're delusional.—Oh, so_ I'm _the one who's in a crappy mood?—Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I'm not jealous.'_ She slouched down the corridor toward her room, scowling.

Barton was impossible. She had tried to fix things between them like Rapp had suggested, but, despite her best efforts, he had gotten angry, had started yelling at her. Somehow everything was her fault.

Her room was a short walk away from the elevators, and as soon as she reached it, she yanked out the top drawer of her dresser and took out a bottle of vodka.

Barton's harsh words stung, but the alcohol began to burn them away as she took huge gulps of the potent liquid. She sunk down onto the side of her bed, taking a moment to focus all her attention on draining as much vodka as she could.

There was no way she could fix this. It seemed to her that Barton had made up his mind to be in a foul mood for the entirety of Rapp and Kennedy's stay, and there was really nothing she could do to change his mind if he was determined to act this way—it wasn't on her if he decided to act juvenile.

Rapp had told her to make things right, but there was only so much she could do—she couldn't control Barton's behavior, and she wasn't responsible for changing it. It wasn't her fault he was being a stubborn ass.

Besides, she couldn't make this better single-handedly. It wasn't on her to make everything perfect between them, and she couldn't do it alone—especially not with Barton acting the way he was.

Romanoff lowered the bottle, catching her breath. She should probably stop drinking now. She had already downed a significant amount in a short period of time, and it wasn't exactly _kvass_ —it was strong stuff. She set the vodka on her nightstand.

' _Problem? Maybe_ you're _the problem!'_ Barton's voice echoed in her mind again, harsh and scalding. ' _Everything was perfectly fine before you came through that door and started yelling at me!'_

Romanoff glowered and grabbed the bottle, heedlessly upending it once again.

' _Lay off, will you!—And now you've resorted to name-calling.—Know what I think? I think_ you're _the one who's jealous!—You can damn well leave!'_ His bitter words ricocheted through her head, and, suddenly, the bottle was empty.

Romanoff glared at the bottle, panting. She knew it hadn't been full when she'd started, but she realized she couldn't remember how much had been in there. Had it been half-full? Three-quarters? One quarter? She wasn't sure, and she found that she didn't care. She tossed the bottle away and stood, heading into the bathroom.

She threw open the cabinet and found another bottle of vodka next to her shampoo bottle. She screwed it open and took a long pull. Already she could feel the beginning effects of the alcohol buzzing at the edges of her consciousness. Perhaps she _should_ have started with the _kvass._ But she found that, the more she drank, the less she cared whether she ended up plastered.

She stepped out of the bathroom and began pacing back and forth in her room, absentmindedly chugging the drink. The first time Barton had started acting tense… it had been when he'd insisted that they talk about the mission, right before her sparring session with Rapp. He'd been perfectly fine before, and then, in that moment, he'd suddenly been so urgent.

If she'd agreed to talk to him, could all of this had been avoided?

Or perhaps that wouldn't have made a difference, but she could instead have saved them this grief had she not lost her temper with him. It was after that that he'd gone so silent and sullen around her, barely meeting her eye during the briefing, or on the ride out to Tarif's location.

And then she'd tried to talk to him after the mission, in the report office, and he'd acted irritated and left abruptly. And when she'd seen him after that, he had touched her shoulder in the shooting range, slow and soft and gentle. Her skin tingled at the memory, as it had at the time. Or maybe that was an effect of the alcohol, she wasn't sure. But that had been the first time he'd touched her in too long, she remembered thinking that at the time, because lately they seemed to be so cold and distant…

Would he ever touch her like that again?

With sudden determination, she lowered the bottle from her lips and clapped it onto the dresser.

"Screw it," she said to the empty room. Rapp was right. If she wanted to make things better, she had to _do something._ Sure, all her attempts had gone horribly so far, but she couldn't just give up. She couldn't just leave things how they were now and doom them to never speak normally to each other again.

She knew that this new conviction was mostly a result of the alcohol that she could now feel coursing strong through her system, but it didn't matter—it was still true. Something had to change. She didn't care whether they had a civil conversation or started yelling at each other again, but she couldn't leave things the way they were.

Without giving it another second of consideration, Romanoff strode out of her room and slammed the door.

Barton's room was only a short walk away. She approached it and barged in without bothering to knock.

Barton was not in his room. She stalked into the bathroom, then into the closet, but he was not there, either.

Romanoff stood blankly in the cluttered closet for a moment, trying to work out where he was. Untidy piles of his clothing were strewn across the floor, and this suddenly reminded her that she was still in her clothes, that it was late, that she had not yet changed and she probably should. Immediately she began stripping her clothes off.

She tossed them aside and tugged a nondescript blue button-down off a hanger. She was pulling it on when she heard Barton enter.

"Yeah…" he was saying. "I guess you're right.

Romanoff took a couple absent-minded steps out of the walk-in, concentrated on buttoning her shirt.

"I'm in love with her," Barton said.

Romanoff froze. She looked up. Barton was standing with his back to her, one hand resting on the door, the other pressing his phone to his ear. Without making a conscious decision, Romanoff glided back into the closet.

"Wait—what?" Barton said.

Romanoff scratched uncomfortably at her thigh. This sounded like a conversation that wasn't meant to be overheard. She was trying to decide if she should just announce her presence or if she'd heard too much already.

"I don't know what to do, Pepper," Barton said, and Romanoff heard the creak of his mattress as he dropped onto his bed. "I'm losing my mind. I just had a fight with her, and…"

Romanoff's heart jolted painfully. He couldn't mean… _her?_

Barton groaned softly. "I don't know how to explain it. She's driving me distracted."

Romanoff pressed a hand to her mouth, heart rattling frantically inside her chest.

 _No. He has to mean someone else._

"You've got to help me," Barton pleaded. A moment passed, and he sighed. "Right, I forgot to tell you. There's this Central Intelligence agent who's staying here, and… I think there's something between them. They hang out a lot, and I think she's into him."

Romanoff's vision seemed to tilt, and her knees felt weak.

He meant her.

Clint Barton was in love with her.

No one had ever been in love with her before. People had been attracted to her, but they had only been interested in her physical appearance, or what she had to offer them. Never before had she even considered the idea of someone loving her for who she was.

Least of all Clint.

"And if she doesn't feel the same way?" he was saying.

The mattress springs creaked again.

"Okay," he said. And then, "Tell her? Right now?"

Romanoff's heart dropped.

 _No. You can't. She won't know what to say. This has never happened before. Please. Just let her think about this for a minute, don't tell her, don't tell her…_

"Okay," Barton said. "I'll tell her."

Romanoff's heart was throbbing hard behind her sternum. She heard the mattress creak as Barton stood up.

"Thanks, Pepper. I mean it. Thanks for everything.—Yeah. So do I."

She heard the door open and close as he left the room.

Romanoff stared blankly at the floor for a moment, hand still pressed to her mouth. Her heart was still pounding like a subwoofer, and for a second she actually felt faint. She could face death in the field and hardly bat an eyelash, but this terrified her. Love terrified her. She tried to regulate her breathing, and a strangled whimpering noise escaped her throat, startling her.

 _Pull yourself together, Romanoff._

She ran to the bathroom and, clutching the sink in a white-knuckled grip, stared into the mirror. Her green eyes were huge in her pale face. Her mind was racing, and suddenly all she could see was _Barton._ Barton watching her across the conference table. Barton touching her shoulder in the shooting range. Barton quickly looking away every time she glanced in his direction. Every look he'd given her, every word he'd said to her in the past week, all taking on new meaning.

Gradually, her mind began to clear, until she was left staring into the mirror, certain of only one thing.

She was in love with Clint Barton.

She had to tell him.

And the next thing she knew, she was skittering down the hall, glancing through every entryway, down every side corridor, for a glimpse of him. Somehow, her feet found the stairs, and she scampered up to the third floor, barefoot and silent. It occurred to her belatedly that she was dressed only in Clint's shirt, but it didn't matter. There was no one to see her anyway—the third floor was dim and empty.

Except for one room at the end of the hallway.

Romanoff sped up as she recognized Clint through the glass wall. Then she stopped, confused. He wasn't alone.

Irene Kennedy was seated next to him on the sofa, her head resting on his shoulder. And Clint's arm was around her. And, as Romanoff watched, he bent his head and pressed a kiss into her hair.

Romanoff frowned. This wasn't right. ' _I'll tell her. Right now,'_ Barton had said. And now he was sitting with his arm around Kennedy, whose face was buried in her hands.

This wasn't right. He was supposed to be looking for _her,_ to tell her how he felt about her. After all, he'd said—

Romanoff stopped short as a thought hit hard in the center of her chest.

Had he ever actually said her name?

And, just like that, everything froze.

She was moving back up the hall in slow motion. ' _I just had a fight with her,'_ Barton had said. Kennedy had been in the report office with him when she'd gotten there.

' _I'm just trying to help, Clint…' 'Leave me alone.'_

Clint. Not Barton. Kennedy had called him Clint.

' _There's this Central Intelligence agent who's staying here, and I think there's something between them,'_ Barton had said.

Romanoff had thought there was something between Rapp and Kennedy, too, when she'd first met them. And now, little memories were flashing through her mind… Barton and Kennedy, always eating meals together. Barton and Kennedy, always sitting in the conference room together when she and Rapp got there. Clint Barton wasn't in love with her. That was stupid.

He was in love with Irene Kennedy.

Romanoff found herself standing outside Barton's door, not quite sure how she had gotten there. Rage was suddenly coursing through her, and her head was swimming.

"Damn you, Barton," she growled. She kicked the door, and it yielded a satisfying _thump._

She kicked it again, harder this time, and then again. And again. Then she attacked it with her fists, giving way to the intense emotions that were churning through her.

"Hey!"

Romanoff turned. Rapp was standing in a doorway, shirtless, his hair mussed. His brow was scrunched up and he was blinking sleepily.

"Romanoff, what's going on?"

Romanoff stared at him.

' _I'm not jealous,'_ Barton had said. ' _I think_ you're _the one who's jealous.'_

He was right.

But, suddenly, Romanoff thought of a way she could make Barton jealous, too.


	19. GOODNIGHT

In a few deft strides, Romanoff had crossed to where Rapp stood. She dragged his face down to her level and kissed him on the mouth.

Rapp jerked away like he'd been slapped. "Natasha, what the hell," he began, but she gripped the sides of his face again, trying to pull him down once more.

"Hey!" Rapp grabbed her by the elbows and shook her so that her heels came off the floor a little. " _Stop."_

Romanoff froze, her eyes going wide. Rapp's face was inches away, and his dark, piercing eyes were locked with hers. Their steadiness and intensity focused her mind somewhat, and she was able to think more clearly about what she was doing.

This was _Rapp_ she was coming onto. A professional acquaintance who had a girlfriend. Whom she didn't even think about in a romantic way, and whom she was definitely giving the wrong idea with regard to her feelings toward him. Not to mention, sleeping with him was not going to make Barton jealous anyway—he was in love with Kennedy, not her. The longer she stood there, her rapid breathing evening out, the more pointless and foolish her petty ploy seemed to become. Slowly, her frenzied passion was draining from her, replaced by quiet shame and keen disappointment.

Rapp's tight grip on her arms loosened as she relaxed, lowering her head.

"Nat, what's going on?" Rapp asked seriously.

"I… I'm sorry," she murmured, staring at the floor. "That wasn't—I mean, I wasn't… I didn't mean it."

"Why were you drinking?" Rapp asked.

"I didn't mean to get drunk," she said sadly. Her eyes stung and she rubbed at them, feeling much more guilty and upset than was reasonable for the circumstances. "I just… wasn't thinking, I guess. I'm sorry I kissed you. I'm going to bed."

She turned away.

"Hey." Rapp caught her by the arm.

"I didn't mean it," she said again, worried she had given him the wrong impression. She pulled away, blinking rapidly. "I'm just drunk. I'm sorry.—"

"I know, Natasha. I know," Rapp said gently, looking at her with concern. "I know it didn't mean anything. It's okay." He rubbed her arm, and she sniffled.

Was she really on the verge of crying?

God, she'd drunk more than she'd thought.

"I just want to know why you're so upset," Rapp said softly. "Maybe I can help."

Romanoff hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Come on." She felt Rapp's warm, strong palm between her shoulder blades, and he guided her gently into his room. "Let's talk."

He secured the door behind them, then, gently but firmly, steered her to his bed. They sat down on the edge, and Rapp turned to her.

"So tell me what's going on."

Romanoff dropped her head, fidgeting with the buttons on her shirt. Again she became vaguely aware that this shirt was all she was wearing, and again she found that she didn't care.

"I don't know where to start," she admitted. And then suddenly, somehow, she had started and was telling him everything—from the fight in the report office, to her revelation after the phone call, to her realization that Barton was in love with someone else. She left out only a few details, and she decided not to name Barton and Kennedy as the people involved. In her somewhat addled state of mind, she wasn't sure why she made this decision—it just seemed like a wise one.

Rapp was a good listener. He was quiet mostly, asking unobtrusive questions from time to time, and Romanoff was surprised at how easy it was to talk to someone she had known for such a short period of time. She supposed this was because she had made an effort to let her guard down from the beginning, so that she'd ended up growing closer to Rapp more quickly than she would have otherwise.

When she finally finished, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, plucking at the bedspread. Rapp was silent for a moment, then he spoke.

"Sounds like you've been through a helluva lot today, Romanoff."

Romanoff twisted her mouth to the side.

"So, this person you have feelings for," Rapp went on. "Are you going to tell him?"

Romanoff squeezed her eyes shut. "I… I don't know," she said quietly. "Should I?" She peered desperately at him, needing some form of guidance as to what to do next.

"I don't know," Rapp said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "You're sure he's interested in someone else?"

A pang spasmed through Romanoff's chest as an image of Barton and Kennedy flashed through her mind. She nodded.

Rapp paused. "Then… I don't think you should tell him," he said. "I mean, what would that accomplish? If he's into someone else, there's nothing either of you can do about it—telling him's just going to complicate things." He exhaled. "If you care about him, just support him in this. That's really all you can do."

Slowly, Romanoff nodded again. Much as she disliked the idea of keeping her feelings a secret, she didn't have much of a choice. As Rapp had pointed out, there was nothing to be gained by telling him if he didn't reciprocate her feelings.

"Okay," she murmured. "Thanks, I'll… I'll think about it."

Rapp nodded. "Anything else I can help with?"

She shook her head. "No. I just needed to talk, I guess."

Rapp stood up and extended his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet.

As they crossed to the door, it occurred to Romanoff how selfless Rapp had been. He'd been awakened by her essentially throwing a tantrum, and, instead of getting annoyed, had helped her out. She owed him.

Rapp opened the door. Romanoff stepped into the hall, then turned to face him in the doorway.

"Look, um… thanks for doing that," she said quietly. "I mean, taking the time to talk to me in the middle of the night… that was really nice. And thanks for the advice, too."

Rapp inclined his head.

""So, uh… thanks for that," Romanoff said again. She bit her lip, a bit frustrated. The alcohol she had drunk still seemed to be interfering with her speech somewhat; her words sounded trite and empty, and she couldn't seem to express how grateful she actually was that he had given her a chance to vent.

"That was… good," she added lamely.

"My pleasure," Rapp replied. "Feeling better now?"

"Much better. That helped a lot."

"I'm glad," Rapp said. "And, hey… if you're ever feeling stressed in the future, I'd be more than happy to do it again."

Romanoff smiled, amazed by the generosity of someone she'd known for so short a period of time. She felt that she still hadn't properly articulated her gratitude, but she'd already thanked him twice, and saying it a third time seemed superfluous. Instead, acting on what was likely vodka-induced impulse, she stepped forward and gave him a hug. Her actions surprised even her a little—she didn't tend to be a physically affectionate person. But she was tired and emotional, and if her behavior was currently being dictated by how much she had drunk, she didn't care.

After a moment, Rapp pulled back and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Get some sleep, Tasha," he advised, and she nodded.

Rapp tossed her a quick smile, then retreated to his room and shut the door.

Romanoff stood blankly in place for a moment. Exhaustion was beginning to wash over her in waves; her limbs felt heavy and her eyes were starting to burn. Rapp was right. She needed to go to bed.

She turned, and found herself looking at Clint Barton.

Romanoff's heart leapt in her chest.

He was standing at the end of the hall, some twenty feet away. He was frozen, mouth slightly open, staring at her.

Romanoff realized she was gaping back at him. She swallowed and tried to smile.

"Hi," she said, taking a few hesitant steps toward him.

Clint didn't answer. He didn't move. He just blinked at her.

Romanoff took a couple more tentative steps in his direction.

"I… didn't see you there," she stated, trying to break the awkward silence.

Clint didn't answer. He blinked. His eyes flicked down to her attire, then to Rapp's bedroom door, where they lingered.

Romanoff stopped mid-step. There was something wrong with the way he was looking at her.

How long had he been standing there…?

The thought hit her like a grenade. If he had seen her embracing Rapp… and they had been in his bedroom… and, come to think of it, had both been half-dressed…

Romanoff looked sharply at Clint. "This isn't what it looks like," she stammered, and his gaze shot back to her face. "I—I didn't—I mean, _we_ didn't—" Romanoff interrupted herself. "I mean, nothing happened, we just—I mean, I just, well, I was—"

She forced herself to stop talking. She couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence, and was afraid she was making things worse.

Clint finally spoke. "It's okay," he said.

There was still a good ten feet of distance between them. Clint's fists were clenched at his sides, and he was gazing seriously at her. After the recon job, he'd changed into a soft tshirt and sweats, and there was something about his appearance… how warm and solid he looked...

Something stirred inside Romanoff's chest. She wanted to be closer to him, she realized. She wanted to close the space between them, to wrap her arms snugly around him, to… kiss him. She wanted to kiss him.

This was new.

Romanoff suddenly felt a bit lightheaded. Her emotions were pounding at her temples with an intensity she'd never felt before, and she could hardly think straight.

"It's okay," Clint repeated. His voice had strengthened somewhat. "It's totally fine. I guess you can sleep with whoever the hell you want. Just took me by surprise, is all."

Romanoff cut in. "I didn't—"

"Might've been nice if you'd said something, though," Clint added. He was frowning. "I didn't know we were keeping secrets like this from each other.

Romanoff frowned back, growing irritated. "Oh, okay," she retorted. "So if you started developing some sort of _attraction_ for someone, you'd let me know?"

Clint folded his arms. "Well, yeah. You'd be the first person I'd tell. I'd want your advice."

Romanoff's frown deepened, hot anger rising to her cheeks.

 _Clint sitting on the couch with his arm around Kennedy… kissing the top of her head…_

"Would you?" Romanoff hissed. "Really?"

Clint scowled. "You don't believe me?"

Romanoff took a step forward. Her rage seemed to be slowly clearing her vodka-dulled brain, making it easier to think.

"Need I remind you," she spat, "of your recent conversation with Pepper about _a certain redhead?"_

Clint's face went white.

"I _thought_ you'd know what I was talking about," Romanoff snapped. "When were you planning on telling me about _that,_ huh?"

Clint closed his eyes.

"How," he said quietly, "do you know about that."

Romanoff began stalking slowly toward him. "After our fight," she began, her voice rising with her anger, "I was waiting in your room, to tell you I was _sorry._ I had stepped into your closet when you got there." She stopped in front of him, glowering fiercely. "Your conversation with Pepper?" she snarled. " _I heard every word."_

Clint groaned and lowered his face into his hands. There was a tense silence.

"I don't know what to say," he said finally, his voice muffled by his palms. "I'm sorry you had to find out that way." He lifted his head. "I was going to tell you myself."

"Well, guess what, Barton!" Romanoff snapped. "You're too damn late!"

Clint suddenly looked sad and tired. "I know," he murmured. He sighed. "I'm sorry. About all of this. I didn't want to upset you—hell, that's the _last_ thing I wanted. I just…" He rubbed at his forehead, possibly as a means of hiding his face for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "I can't help how I feel, Nat. I've never felt this way before. About anyone."

There was tenderness in his eyes, and so much love in his tone that it overwhelmed her.

 _Love that was meant for Kennedy._ Her insides hardened.

"I'm sorry it upsets you so much," Clint went on. "I don't know what I was expecting. I just, I've never loved—"

"Stop," said Romanoff.

Clint stopped, hurt in his eyes.

"I don't care about your _feelings,"_ Romanoff growled. "I don't want to hear this."

' _If you care about him, just support him in this,'_ Rapp had said, and she knew that he was right. But, at the moment, she couldn't bring herself to care.

Clint dropped his head. "Okay. Okay. I understand."

Romanoff huffed. "The point is, if you really expect me to tell you—Where are you doing?" she demanded, turning as he brushed past her.

"To bed," he said without turning around.

"I'm not done talking about this!" she snapped.

"I am." He had reached his door.

"Dammit, Clint!" Romanoff yelled.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned to look at her. Pain and disappointment showed on his face.

"Goodnight, Natasha," he said quietly.

And he disappeared into his room.

* * *

Sorry for the wait! I had a bit of trouble with this chapter.

I'm still not totally happy with it - I think the progression of events is farfetched to say the least, and it's all balancing very delicately on one fragile fulcrum - but it's not bad. I flatter myself I made the best of the mess that was here.


	20. CONFERENCE

Clint Barton had never been so ashamed of himself.

First of all, to entertain the idea, even for a second, that Natasha Romanoff could care for him.

Second, to presume to declare _his_ feelings for _her._

And, thirdly, to renew his declaration even _after_ she'd made it perfectly clear that it wasn't welcome.

What a nuisance he'd made of himself—she'd had to resort to essentially yelling at him to stop him forcing himself on her. What must she think of him now? He couldn't stop thinking about her expression, how upset she'd looked, the distaste he'd seen written there. How could he even face her again after that?

He'd had to force himself to stay calm after seeing her with Rapp. There had been a moment when he'd doubted, due to her repeated denials, whether she'd actually slept with him. But the evidence was so damning, and she'd definitely been drunk. At this point, there was no doubt in his mind that she had indeed slept with him.

Barton had been notified that there was to be a meeting the next morning at eleven. Tarif was on the move again, and they had to be briefed before that evening. Barton had no doubt that things would be hilariously awkward between himself and his partner, but he supposed they would have to see one another again at some point.

Still, he arrived at the conference room a little early to reduce the risk of running into her on the way.

Kennedy was already there when he shuffled in, alternating between typing at her laptop and sifting through various folders. She looked up when he entered, and smiled sympathetically.

"Sleepless night?"

"What gave it away?" Barton said wearily, circling the table and slumping into the seat next to her.

"You should try to get some sleep before this evening," she advised. "Make sure you're well-rested before you head out.

"Yeah…" Barton mused.

Kennedy continued clicking away at her keyboard. "Is it something you want to talk about?" she asked after a moment.

Barton hesitated, then decided he wasn't ready to relive the events of last night aloud. He shook his head.

"No, but thanks."

She merely hummed and nodded.

Barton folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. He let his gaze rest idly on the tabletop as the ticking of the keyboard marked the time.

A few minutes passed before Rapp and Natasha arrived. They were walking slowly, Rapp ducking his head down near Natasha's as they carried on a whispered conversation. Barton didn't look up as they entered the room, but he watched Natasha out of his peripheral vision and saw her glance his way.

Rapp slid into the seat opposite Kennedy, and, after a millisecond's hesitation, Natasha took the seat directly across from Barton.

 _Oh. Fantastic. This isn't going to be awkward at all._

Barton studiously avoided making eye contact as Natasha and Rapp muttered back and forth to each other. Finally, Rapp spoke aloud.

"Who's leading today, Kennedy?"

"Director Coulson is," Kennedy replied.

"And Tarif makes his move tonight, correct?"

"If our intel is accurate, yes."

As Rapp and Kennedy continued discussing Tarif's latest movements, Barton's mind wandered. He stretched his legs out and felt his shoe brush one of the table legs. Natasha looked sharply at him, and he realized with a start that it was _not_ a table leg. He snatched his legs back with a mumbled apology.

 _Brilliant move there, Barton. Yeah, go ahead and play footsie with her, that's gonna go great. Way to make things less awkward, genius._

Barton kept his eyes trained downward until Coulson and Stansfield arrived. Stansfield secured the door and headed to the foot of the table, while Coulson moved to the front of the room.

Kennedy closed her laptop and collected a handful of documents which she passed to Coulson. He glanced briefly at them and nodded his thanks.

"Agents," he addressed them, looking around at them all. "According to our intel, Tarif makes his next move this evening. I know a few of you have expressed doubt that he would act again so soon after last time, but, as I've said before, he does tend to strike when we're least expecting it. He seems to try to avoid working in a pattern, so it's actually more plausible than it might seem that this information is legitimate.

"Like last time, this is a bit short-notice, so we've had to scramble a little to get our plans coordinated, but if there's even a chance Tarif could strike, we need to check it out. We're counting on all of you to be prepared tonight—since this won't be your first mission together, my hope is that things will run even more smoothly than last time.

Coulson paused. "We're going to try a different approach this time. It's a little risky. We're going to use the diversion method."

Barton raised his eyebrows in surprise and glanced at Natasha. Generally, their superiors used this euphemism to refer to missions in which Natasha had to seduce the mark—to tempt them to an isolated area and kill them. Natasha was frowning at Coulson, looking as if she had as many questions as Barton did, but she didn't speak.

"Romanoff, you know the drill," Coulson went on. "Your job is to lure Tarif to a secluded area, get his defenses down, so the three of you can take him down more easily. Intel puts him in a club in the city tonight, just fifteen, twenty minutes away from HQ. You'll have to leave around a quarter to eight."

"Coulson?" Barton and Romanoff said together. They both stopped and looked awkwardly at each other.

"Go ahead," Natasha said, looking away.

Barton turned back to Coulson, trying to recover his train of thought. "So… Tarif. What if he saw her at the party? I mean, if he recognizes her, we're screwed."

"And if it falls through tonight, he'll have seen my face for sure," Natasha put in, "which would nix the option of undercover work from here on out."

"That's why we're going to succeed tonight," Coulson said firmly. "And, yes, Agent Barton, that is a possibility. But we're going to have to take that chance. Director Stansfield is concerned that we're not utilizing all of our resources, and, quite frankly, I agree with him. We need to be trying everything we can to take this man down before he hurts more people. Our attempts to apprehend him so far have been fairly direct—it's time we tried a more subtle approach."

"Listen, I'm just—" Barton sat forward, clasping his hands. "Look, the diversion method works great on—on noobs. And ego-freaks. But Tarif is a man on the run. Won't he smell a rat?"

Coulson nodded. "That was brought up as well. Tarif is a professional, and he'll certainly be on his guard. So, to reduce the risk of Agent Romanoff's cover being blown, we've decided she'll be going in blind. No comms, no weapons." Natasha seemed about to speak, but Coulson held up his hand. "I know, it's not ideal. But let's face it—Tarif's going to be scrutinizing everyone and everything around him. Weapons, comms, these things are just too visible when you're working in such close quarters. Especially to a man like Tarif."

Natasha nodded slowly, looking resigned.

"That being said," Coulson continued. "You'll need to have some way of staying connected with Agent Barton. That's where Agent Rapp comes in." He turned to Rapp. "Agent Rapp. Agent Romanoff will be working on the inside on this op, and Agent Barton will be on the outside. You'll be the link between the two. I need you inside the building, eyes on Agent Romanoff at all times, and you'll be linked to Barton over the comms so you can keep him updated. You'll let him know when and where to take the shot. Your presence there will also be insurance that Agent Romanoff is safe, as she'll be unarmed. So, while you certainly need to keep a close watch on Tarif, your priority on this op is Agent Romanoff. Tarif is to be left primarily to the care of STRIKE Team: Delta. I hope that won't be a problem."

"Not at all, sir."

"Good," Coulson said. "Any other questions?... Excellent. Everyone's dismissed."

* * *

This chapter should not have taken me this long! I just struggled with the phrasing a bit.

Also don't you love how Clint and Nat's completely legitimate concerns are totally lampshaded there at the end... amazing :P


	21. CONFRONT

Rapp hailed Barton in the hall as he headed away from the conference room.

"Barton," he began, falling into stride next to him.

Barton grunted, watching Natasha vanish down the hall ahead of them.

Rapp exhaled. "I'm gonna get straight to the point. There's nothing going on between me and Natasha. She came into my room last night and we talked. That's all."

Barton frowned doubtfully at the floor, again replaying the scene in his mind. Then he said accusingly, "She was wearing your clothes."

"Not mine," Rapp said simply.

Barton looked at him in surprise. "What? Whose, then?"

Rapp merely shrugged.

Barton looked at the floor again, bewildered. Then Natasha's words came back to him: ' _I had stepped into your closet when you got there.'_

Barton's shoulders relaxed; he almost smiled. _Of course…_ She'd stolen his clothes before. He should've recognized his own stupid shirt.

The thought of Natasha wearing his clothes cheered him for some reason. It was also beginning to seem as though she hadn't slept with Rapp after all; perhaps he owed her an apology.

"Look, thanks for telling me," he said to Rapp in a low voice.

"No problem." Rapp looked relieved. "It was just a kiss, that's all. Nothing more."

Barton stopped in his tracks, something jolting unpleasantly in his stomach.

Rapp paused and looked back, his eyes quickly sweeping Barton's face.

"Nat didn't tell you," he said after a moment, looking sheepish.

Barton glared at him, his anger rushing back in full measure.

Rapp stepped closer, dropping his voice. "She was drunk. Okay?" he said, speaking quickly. "She was upset. I stopped it as soon as it started."

Barton glared at him a moment longer, then stepped past him and stalked to the elevators. Rapp didn't try to stop him.

 **.** **.** **.** **.** **.**

Barton spent the rest of the day working off some anger in the shooting range, preparing for the mission, and getting the sleep Kennedy had prescribed. He made an effort to avoid Natasha—not so much because he knew things would be uncomfortable between them, as because he figured she wouldn't particularly want to see him. Not after last night.

But Barton knew he couldn't head into the field with things the way they were. It would be difficult to concentrate with all of this hanging between them. Uncomfortable though he knew it would be, he resolved to talk to her. Even if he could not abate all the tension between them, perhaps he could relieve some of it.

Seven-thirty found him knocking on her door. Her muffled voice welcomed him, and he let himself into her suite.

She wasn't in her bedroom. But the bathroom light was on, and the door stood open, so Barton headed over. He stopped in the doorway.

Natasha was leaning towards the mirror, painting her lips a provocative shade of red. She was wearing a short, black, form-fitting dress that, for her purposes, presented her figure to its best advantage and showed as much skin as possible. It was sleeveless, backless, and scandalously low in the front. Her hair was arranged in loose waves around her shoulders, and her makeup made her eyes appear even larger and more luminous than normal. Every detail of her appearance was designed to entice, and it was succeeding almost to a fault.

Natasha's eyes met his in the mirror, then quickly returned to her task. "What do you want?" she asked quietly.

"Uh…" Barton blinked. What _did_ he want? He couldn't remember. All he wanted _now_ was to pin her to the counter, bury his hands in her hair, and kiss her till she couldn't breathe.

Barton cleared his throat, trying to focus, and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. "I want to apologize," he recalled. "For… last night."

Natasha glanced at him in the mirror again. "There's nothing you need to apologize for."

"Yeah, there is," Barton said, crossing his arms. "I should never have said those things. I should've known you wouldn't be interested."

Natasha was shaking her head, eyes downcast. "Don't say that."

"Well, it's true," Barton began, but she whirled to face him.

" _Don't,"_ she ordered. "I'm the one who should be apologizing, not you. All you wanted was to talk about your feelings, and I shut you down. It was thoughtless, and—and _juvenile."_

Barton didn't reply. He felt that she was being a bit too generous about the whole thing—he had figured that she would be more reasonable now that some time had passed and she was no longer drunk, but he hadn't expected her to take the blame.

Plus, her lips were such a distracting color that he was having a harder time grasping her words than he might usually.

Natasha dropped her head, fiddling with the hem of her dress. "I don't know why I reacted that way. I mean, you would've had to tell me at some point, I imagine."

"I—maybe, yeah. I guess so." Barton flushed slightly. Clearly she had grasped that his feelings would have been hard to hide permanently. "But the point is, you shouldn't have to listen to that if you don't want to. You have every right to shut me up."

Natasha folded her arms. "But you're—you're my best friend. You can talk to me about anything."

Barton raised his eyebrows. She would let him blabber on about his feelings for her when she didn't even return them?

"Uh… that's… nice, of you," he stammered. "But if you don't want to hear what I have to say, I _want_ you to shut me up. Please."

Natasha exhaled, looking relieved, and nodded.

Barton cleared his throat. The silence stretched on, and he tried to think of something else to say.

"Oh! Uh… also," he began. "I talked to Rapp, and uh… he said you were telling the truth. About last night. So. Sorry for not trusting you."

Slowly, Natasha began stepping closer to him.

Barton froze.

"It's okay," Natasha said. She drew to a stop directly in front of him, eyes locked with his.

Barton swallowed.

Natasha tilted her head at him. "Um…"

"Yeah," Barton agreed quickly. He could smell her perfume now—he was pretty sure it was chemically engineered to make men go weak at the knees.

Natasha's mouth twitched. "Is it okay—?"

"Totally," Barton assured her.

"—if I, um…?" Natasha gestured past him, and realization struck.

" _Oh!"_ Barton sprang out of her way, clearing the passage. His face flushed hot as she edged past him.

"Sorry," he mumbled as she entered her closet. He moved back into her bedroom as she rummaged through her hangers, inwardly insulting his own intelligence.

"Ready," she announced, seconds later. Barton turned as she emerged from the closet, and a grin spread across his face.

Natasha was frowning with concentration as she buttoned up a blue and gold varsity jacket. It was faded and worn, drawing a stark contrast to her slinky black dress and glamorous appearance.

"It's been getting colder, so I thought I'd wear a jacket," she was saying. She looked up at Barton and stopped when she saw his expression. "What?"

"Nothing." Barton tried to straighten his face.

Natasha crossed her arms over her half-buttoned jacket, amusement sparkling in her eyes. "No, tell me."

Her manner and tone were playful for the first time in days, and his smile grew. He folded his arms and nodded at her top. "Was just gonna say, that jacket really sells the whole seductress look," he teased.

Natasha rolled her eyes, smirking. "Smartass."

Barton chuckled, drawing closer to her. "So… we good?" he asked quietly.

Natasha smiled. "We're good," she said.

Natasha ducked her head to tackle her buttons again. Her hair was still tucked into her collar, and, on an impulse, Barton slid a hand behind her neck and slipped it out.

Natasha sucked in her breath.

Barton jerked his hand back, abashed. "Sorry."

"It's fine," she said quickly. She dropped her head again, and another silence fell as she finished buttoning the jacket.

At last, Barton cleared his throat. "Well. We should probably head down now. Rapp's waiting on us."

Natasha glanced up at him and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we should go."

She stepped around him to the door and slipped into a pair of black stilettos. Then she paused with her hand on the doorknob, and her bright eyes alighted on him. "Ready?"

"Yeah, I just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I just gotta grab some stuff from my room. Go ahead, I'll meet you down there."

Natasha left the room.

Barton waited until her footsteps had faded before he headed to his own room. Somehow, he couldn't decide whether he'd succeeded in his object of decreasing the tension between them, or had made it worse.

* * *

Aah idk, I feel like this story's pretty good overall, but chapters like this one make me realize just how farfetched this all is. If one of them had been even slightly more clear during their conversation, this spider's thread of a plot would dissolve.

That said, I'm having fun posting this and I hope you guys are enjoying it! I can't wait for you to see what happens in the upcoming mission! :D


	22. SCREW

Rapp knew something was going on between Barton and Romanoff as soon as he saw them in the lobby. Barton was serious and quiet, avoiding Romanoff's gaze, and Romanoff kept scowling pensively into space. The ride to the location was unnaturally silent, and Rapp fell into his usual habit of organizing the facts he knew, trying to draw conclusions about their situation.

First of all, Barton was in love with Romanoff. That much was clear, from the way he looked at her, spoke to her, smiled at her, behaved around her, talked about her… the list went on. Anyone who had eyes could see it.

Romanoff, though, was an enigma. Rapp had wondered before if she was in love with Barton, because of the way she looked at him, and sometimes grew flustered when she spoke about him. But then, last night, she'd voiced her love for a man who was interested in someone else, so it couldn't be Barton. All he knew for sure, then, was that Barton loved Romanoff. Anything beyond that was mere conjecture.

The sun had just set when they reached their destination, and the windows of the club glowed golden in the dim light. Rapp parked a good distance away from the structure and turned to face the other operatives. "Okay, we're ready to move in. Barton, don't leave this car until we're in position. Romanoff, you and I need to enter separately. I'll go first." He slid his comm into his ear.

"No, I'll go," Romanoff cut in. Rapp merely nodded as she hastily unbuttoned the varsity jacket she wore over her dress. It was clear that she didn't want to be alone with Barton, but he didn't comment.

Romanoff glanced at her reflection and gave her hair a quick pat. "See you on the other side." She alighted from the car and started down the sidewalk in the light drizzle. It was clear from the confident way she swaggered toward the club that she was already getting into character.

Rapp glanced at Barton in the rearview mirror. He was staring after Romanoff, deep in thought.

"You ready for this op?" Rapp asked.

Barton exhaled and lowered his head. "Guess we'll find out."

They sat in pensive silence for several minutes. When he judged that enough time had passed, Rapp stirred, double-checking his weapons.

"Alright, I'm heading out."

The air outside was chilly, and the rainfall was little more than a light mist that clung to the amber streetlamps. Rapp fastened his leather jacket and switched on his comm.

"Testing," he murmured.

"Loud and clear," Barton responded. "Anticipating taking position within the next five minutes."

"Roger that."

Rapp had reached the club, and he pushed open the door, letting himself in.

The common area was crowded with people, and the air was warm and close. Upbeat music issued from a jukebox in the corner, nearly drowning out the roar of talking, laughing people. There were tables around the room and booths against the walls, and the scene was illuminated by harsh, yellowish lights.

Rapp kept his hands in his pockets and his head down as he maneuvered through the laughing, jostling crowd. He reached the grubby bar and slid into one of the barstools, then ordered a beer.

Once he had been handed the drink, he swiveled in his seat, taking full account of his surroundings. He raised the beer to his lips, letting his gaze creep slowly across the room, pretending boredom, but actually focused and analytical. He spied Tarif first, slouched at a table next to the wall.

Rapp paused in his drinking and passed a hand across his mouth to mask its movement: " _He's here."_

"Copy."

Rapp located Romanoff seconds later, her red hair cast slightly off-hue by the colored lights. Her tiny dress and garish makeup camouflaged her perfectly among the clientele.

She had selected a table a short distance away from the target, in such a position that her figure was presented in the best possible lighting and angle to him. It was evident that she'd already begun the process of drawing him in; she kept glancing at him through her long lashes and laughing prettily, then ducking her head and turning her profile toward him, her slender fingers tapping lightly on the rim of her glass as she watched him with feigned naïvete from under lowered lids. She acted shy and coy, but her sweet facade hid a calm, practiced demeanor. It was clear to Rapp that she had years of experience in this process.

"Black Widow has laid the trap," he informed Barton.

"Just keep me updated" was Barton's reply.

Rapp admired the Widow's expertise for several minutes. He noted with admiration the subtlety of luring the target to herself rather than approaching him directly. Due to her technique and finesse, it wasn't long before her quarry walked directly into her web.

Rapp pressed a finger to his comm. "He's taking the bet. That was fast."

"Romanoff knows what she's doing," Barton said quietly.

Rapp watched the scene play out in the reflection of a darkened window to give the impression of gazing through it. The target was hovering close to the Widow, his eyes dragging jealously across every inch of her. She smiled coquettishly, her lips forming tempting, piquant words, leading him on. It wasn't long before the subject's hands were roaming as well as his eyes, feeling out his objective. After several savage, feral kisses, the twosome hastened across the room, prey clinging obliviously to predator, and they exited through a wide outlet on the left.

Rapp got slowly to his feet. "They're on the move."

"Which way are they headed?" Barton asked.

Rapp began meandering casually toward the outlet, idly sipping his beer. "South side."

"Crap," Barton muttered. "I'm on the north. I can circle around, but I'll have to take a back route to keep from being spotted. Could take a few minutes."

"Think Romanoff'll be able to keep him occupied?" Rapp wondered.

"Let's hope," Barton said grimly.

Rapp had reached the egress, and he lounged against the wall next to it, leaning his head back. After a moment, he turned his head, peering through the opening and down the long hall. He caught a glimpse of Romanoff vanishing into one of the sleep rooms—Tarif's.

"Room one-thirty-one," he informed Barton. "Count the fourth window from the right, ground floor."

"Hang on," came the reply. "I'm still en route."

For the next several minutes, Rapp leaned against the wall, watching the crowd, listening to the music, and drinking his beer. Occasionally he glanced down at Room 131, but all seemed quiet, so for the most part, he avoided drawing attention by scrutinizing it.

A porter strode past Rapp and into the hall. Rapp tracked his progress in his peripheral vision.

The man knocked on the door to Room 131.

"Hawkeye," Rapp muttered instantly. "We have a situation.

"What's going on?"

The door opened, and a large suitcase was passed out.

"We've got a bellhop transporting Tarif's luggage," Rapp said.

"He's leaving?" Barton demanded, as the porter headed back up the hall.

Rapp hid his face behind his drink as the man passed him. "Unsure. The porter's headed for the exit. Are you in position?"

"Just about. Keep me posted.

Moments later, the door to Room 131 opened again. Tarif stepped out and trooped up the hall, sporting a satisfied smile. Rapp turned his face away as he walked by, apprehension climbing.

"Tarif's leaving."

"What!" Barton said sharply. "Where's the Widow?"

"Still in the room," Rapp said tensely. Tarif was edging through the crowd, steadily approaching the door. "You in position yet?"

"Yeah, I'm setting up my scope."

Rapp peeled off the wall and started after Tarif. "I'm going after him."

"Wait," Barton interrupted. "I don't have Romanoff in my sights yet. Your priority is to have eyes on her at all times so we don't lose contact."

"Set up your damn scope then," Rapp said, sidestepping a knot of people. "We can't lose him, not when we're this close."

Tarif had exited the building, and Rapp followed. The wind had picked up, and he hunched his shoulders as he scoured the streets for their mark.

Then he sighted him: twenty yards away, boarding a waiting taxi, still with that self-satisfied leer.

 _Dammit._

The door slammed and the taxi started rolling forward. Rapp pivoted and began sprinting toward where their car was parked. If he hurried, he could tail them.

Then Barton cursed in his ear.

"RAPP, YOU IDIOT!" he bellowed. "You were supposed to protect her!"

Rapp swivelled to face the building, concern climbing. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Get the hell in here!"

Rapp threw one last glance at the accelerating taxi before rushing back into the club.

He picked his way back through the oppressive crowd in the common area, shoving, inching, and apologizing his way across the floor. He finally reached the outlet, and ran down the hall to Room 131.

It was unlocked. Rapp pushed it open and barely had time to register the disheveled state of the room before a furious-looking Barton was barreling toward him and a powerful fist collided with his face.

Rapp reeled back, too worried to fight back.

"You had one job, Rapp!" Barton seethed, glowering at him. " _One_ job, and that was to keep her safe!"

Rapp's sense of dread was steadily growing, and he glanced around the disarranged quarters, his face now throbbing.

"What happened?" he murmured anxiously.

"That's what I'd like to know!" Barton snarled. He gestured wildly around the disordered room. "Take a look around—she's not here. I've looked everywhere!" Barton kicked the dangling door of a wardrobe, slamming it shut. "Natasha's gone, Rapp!" he yelled. "And it's all your fault!"


	23. PLANS

"So there was no sign of her in the room?" Coulson was saying.

They were huddled around a table in one of the smallest conference rooms, Coulson sitting at the head. As soon as Rapp and Barton had returned and informed him of the problem, he'd called up an ad hoc meeting, and now Kennedy and Stansfield were sitting with them at the table as they relayed their story.

"None, sir," Rapp responded. "We searched the quarters thoroughly and conducted a general ground check. She wasn't on the premises."

"We're wasting time," Barton said tightly. He was sitting at the far side of the table, scowling and bouncing his knees in agitation. A blue and gold varsity jacket was clutched firmly to his chest. "They could be _torturing_ her right now for all we know, and we're just sitting here yammering."

"We need to confirm the details before we can take action," Stansfield said.

"Yeah?" Barton snapped. "I'll confirm the details for you." His chair scraped the floor loudly as he leapt to his feet.

"Barton," Coulson said passively.

"Natasha's missing," Barton said fiercely. "She was in Tarif's room and he overpowered her somehow, not so surprising considering that this is freaking _Jehu Tarif_ we're talking about and he was probably onto us from the second we walked into that club, and he was probably armed to the teeth and Natasha had _nothing,_ not even her Widow Bites. So he conked her out, smuggled her out of the room in the suitcases, right under our _noses,_ and hightailed it out of there. We searched the room and Rapp found that goddamn piece of paper with the number on it, and now we're just sitting around chatting when we could be _calling the damn number_ and getting to Nat in time!"

Barton was breathing hard, glaring darkly at Stansfield. Kennedy was watching him with concern tracing her features.

"Agent Barton," Coulson said quietly. "Please sit down."

Barton slumped belligerently into his seat.

Silence reigned for a few tense seconds.

"We're already aware of the broader details," Stansfield began.

Barton pounded the table with a fist. "Then _why_ don't you just—!"

"What we really need here," Stansfield continued, "is to refine more specific details. For example, you said that Tarif hid Romanoff in his suitcase. How do you know that? What if she just left the room when Rapp went after Tarif?"

"She didn't," Barton said impatiently, bouncing his knees again. "There are two exits: the door and the window. If she'd left through the door, she would've met up with Rapp; if she'd left through the window, I'd've seen her. Plus, all of Tarif's stuff was still in his room. I mean, you'd think he'd at least do a quick sweep and make sure he got everything," he added sarcastically.

"Please watch your tone, Barton," Coulson said mildly. "We're all on the same side here."

"Are we?" Barton demanded. "Cause right now, Nat could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, and—"

"He's not gonna kill her," Rapp spoke up.

Barton's sharp eyes snapped toward him. "How do _you_ know that?" he spat.

Rapp met his gaze calmly. "If he overpowered her in his room and he intended to kill her, it would've been a hell of a lot easier to do it then and there instead of carting her around." He shook his head. "No, he won't kill her. My guess is that he plans to use her as leverage.

Barton sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Okay, so he wants to use her as leverage. Small comfort. He can still hurt her. He could be—God knows what he's doing to her right now." He lowered his head, fidgeting with the jacket in his lap.

Rapp shrugged. "What motive would he have for hurting her?"

Barton's head shot up. "What motive does he have for hurting anyone? He's a goddamn terrorist!"

"Barton, please," Coulson said. "I understand you're upset. We all are. But we need to think logically about this. And the fact of the matter is, Romanoff is a very capable agent, and Tarif is a hunted man on foreign turf with little or no reason to even harm her. Please, try to calm yourself."

Barton exhaled and dropped his head into his hands. After a moment, he said, "It's just so frustrating not knowing where she is."

Coulson nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "Well, Stansfield, Kennedy, unless you have more questions for our agents, I think we should call that number now."

Barton raised his head.

"My guess is that Tarif knew we would search that room, so he left a way to bargain with us," Coulson added.

Stansfield nodded. "I think we're clear enough on the details now. Let's try the number."

Coulson led the way down to SHIELD's Technology Unit. It was a few halls and an elevator ride away; the time was a little after nine, so the base was gradually beginning to clear out. The small group headed to entrance of the Tech Unit, a large room filled with rows of computers. By this time of the evening, only an odd dozen-or-so people remained, scattered across the room at various computers.

Coulson strode towards a Level Four who was typing furiously at a keyboard, and the others followed in his wake.

"Cramer," Coulson greeted, and the technician stood. "It is Cramer, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"We're making a high-security call and I need to have the number tracked.

"Happy to help, sir. What's the number?"

Coulson passed him the scrap of paper, and Cramer slid back into his seat. He punched the number into the calling system and the device started to ring.

Barton shifted nervously, fidgeting with the jacket collar.

At last, the ringing stopped.

And Jehu Tarif's accented voice sounded over the line.

"I assume you are calling about the redheaded bitch."

"What do you want?" Coulson spoke up. He motioned to Cramer and mouthed, _trace it._

"I don't want to kill her, if that is what you think," Tarif said. "But if you do not agree to my terms, I will not have a choice."

Barton took a slow breath, glaring at the computer. Rapp looked at the screen—the trace was gradually closing in on the target's location.

"New York," he muttered.

"And what are you terms?" Coulson asked, eyeing the tracker. It converged still closer on a town: Glen Cove. "I don't have all day," Coulson added.

"Why should I hurry? I need to give you time to trace this call," Tarif said.

Coulson and Stansfield exchanged glances.

"I will spare you the effort," Tarif continued. "I am at 2451 Chester Street in Glen Cove. My coordinates are forty point eight-six-two-three-two-two and negative seventy-three point six-three-three-seven-three-nine."

A soft alert sounded from the computer as the tracker zeroed in on Tarif's location. Cramer glanced at the coordinates on the screen, then looked at Coulson. "It checks out, sir."

Coulson's brow wrinkled. "What do you want?" he repeated.

"All I require is safe passage back to my own country," Tarif said. "If you let me leave without pursuit, I'll return the bitch."

Rapp raised his eyebrows, his mind already working through the implications of this.

"And why should I agree to your terms?" Coulson asked.

"Because you want the girl back in one piece," Tarif answered.

Coulson fell silent, thinking.

"Come and meet me, and we'll make the exchange," Tarif went on. "I give you the redhead, and you let me walk free. Come alone—no tricks, or the pretty one pays for it."

There was a click, and the buzz of a dialtone filled the air.

Then Rapp said, "Well, this is gonna be too easy."

"Not sure I'd go that far," Barton grumbled, crossing his arms tightly.

"No, I'm serious," Rapp continued. "I'm a little disappointed—Tarif literally just gave us his location, and he's outnumbered by a couple thousand to one."

"What if he doesn't work alone?" Barton countered.

"He does," Rapp said firmly. "Intel checks out—he's definitely a one-man show. My guess is that we got too close for comfort and he knows we're closing in. Sure, he got lucky and managed to kidnap Romanoff, but to me, this looks like a last ditch attempt to shake us.

"Yeah, but you're forgetting something," Barton said, scowling. "Like I said before, this is _Jehu Tarif_ we're talking about. We can't take him lightly—I mean, he took down _Romanoff,_ for crying out loud. Sure, he was armed, but it usually takes a full tac team to take her down, armed or not. Besides…" Barton clenched his fists. "He said if we tried to pull anything, he'd take it out on her. If we show up with an entire army, who knows what he'd do to her." He lowered his head, his jaw tightening.

"That's true," Rapp admitted. He gazed off into space for a moment, trying to think of a solution.

It was Kennedy who broke the silence.

"Well, you can't all converge on him at once; that would endanger Romanoff. But what if the team holds back and only a few of you confront him? He won't see you coming and you can keep him busy enough that he can't hurt her. Once you've accomplished that, the rest of the team can close in."

Rapp snapped his fingers. "Brilliant."

Barton seemed to be thinking hard. "Well… it could be hard to sneak up on him. But… it might work," he said, raising his head hopefully.

Rapp turned expectantly to the directors.

"I think it's our best option," Stansfield said.

Coulson smiled. "How many tac teams do you need?"

"Two," said Rapp.

"Make in five," Barton put in.

Rapp raised an eyebrow at him.

Barton stared back unflinchingly. "Nat once took out an entire armed guard with a nailfile and a handful of toothpicks. If Tarif could take her down, I don't wanna take any chances." He shook his head. "Not when there's so much at stake."

Rapp nodded his agreement.

"Well, now that that's figured out," Barton said, "let's not waste any more time. C'mon."

And he led the way out of the Tech Unit.


	24. ATTACK

"We're closing in," Rapp muttered.

He was watching the screen of his navigation device as the SHIELD van crawled slowly through Glen Cove. Four more vans traveled behind them, containing the other tac teams.

They were rolling not far from a quiet stretch of beach, the white moon reflecting off of Long Island Sound. Barton's gaze skimmed the landscape as they drew nearer to Tarif's coordinates.

"Left here," Rapp said to Agent Mayer, who was behind the wheel. Mayer turned the van left, steering them through a dark grove of trees. Slivers of the shimmering Sound were visible between the tangled branches.

"There it is," Rapp said quietly.

Barton's pulse sped up as he located it: a lone cabin, about a hundred yards away, silhouetted against the dim sky.

Mayer radioed the other vans: "The location is in sight. Standby for further instructions."

He parked the van behind a thick clump of trees, and the other drivers followed his lead.

Rapp clicked the magazine into his rifle, turning to face the other six operatives. "Alright, agents," he said, sliding his comm into his ear. "Here's how this is gonna work. Barton, Mayer, Kelley and I will enter the building first. Once we've engaged the target, I'll contact you." He tapped his ear. "This comm is linked to the vans' radio systems, so when I use it, a signal will be transmitted into all five vehicles. When I give the signal, I need all of you on location immediately. All clear?"

The agents nodded.

"Agent Morse, I need you to bring the other teams up to speed," Rapp said.

Morse nodded. "On it."

"Will we split up to look for Tarif?" Agent Kelley asked.

"We'll stick together," Rapp answered. "We don't want him to catch one of us alone. Okay!" he said. "All set?—Then let's go."

The four agents moved swiftly across the turf towards the dark cabin. The air was hushed and chilly; the only noises came from the muted twitterings and croakings of the nocturnal creatures that inhabited the trees, and the soft whisper of the waves in the sound.

Barton followed closely behind Rapp as they neared the cabin. Rapp crossed the narrow porch in a single stride and carefully twisted the doorknob.

The door opened. The four operatives spilled into a diminutive kitchen, lit only by two grubby windows.

The house was cold and drafty. The team made quick work of searching the small kitchen, checking behind the few articles of furniture in the room. There was no sign of Tarif.

A trickle of doubt crept into Barton's mind. Rapp was right—this was too easy. Tarif had given them his exact location and had even left the door unlocked. Almost like he wanted them there. Did Tarif really intend to make a peaceable transaction with them? Were they walking into a trap?

As if in reply, a gunshot claimed the air.

Rapp cried out as he was thrown back several feet, slamming loudly into the exterior door.

The other agents scrambled to the edges of the room for cover—based on the direction of Rapp's momentum, there was only one possibility as to where the shot had come from: a doorway that led to a long, black hallway.

Rapp shot repeatedly into the hallways and rolled out of the line of fire. Barton wasn't terribly concerned about him at the moment—they were all outfitted with bulletproof vests, so while the shot had probably hurt and knocked the wind out of him, it wouldn't be fatal.

As Rapp lay gasping on the floor, the other three agents gathered around the doorway and shot blindly into the darkness. The answering drill of a machine gun told them their bullets had not found their target.

Tarif had the advantage, being in the dark while they were in a rather more lit area. Barton, Mayer, and Kelley ducked aside as Tarif's machine gun retched out a fresh onslaught of bullets. The attack subsided, and Kelley stuck her arm around the doorway to fire. Another shot cut the air, and Kelley shouted and dropped her gun, jerking back a bloody hand.

A thrill of foreboding rolled through Barton. The fight had barely started, and half their team was hit already. Their position was too exposed.

"Rapp," he called. "Might wanna give that signal now!"

Another volley of shots erupted from the hallway. Panting, Rapp tried to raise a hand to his ear, but it was clear that Tarif had hit him in the shoulder, and the effort caused him considerable pain.

There was a rustling in the room beyond, and footsteps sounded in the passage.

"Rapp," Barton repeated apprehensively. "Give the signal!"

Rapp reached around with his good hand, just as Tarif collided with Barton, throwing him to the floor. His gun flew out of his hands, resigning him to hand-to-hand combat.

And Tarif was good. _Very_ good. Barton was certainly a challenging opponent for him, but he still might have been offed fairly quickly had it not been for Mayer.

Kelley was crumpled on the floor, cupping her injured hand, and Rapp was scarcely better off. But Mayer, abandoning his gun (likely for fear of hitting Barton by mistake), attacked Tarif from behind.

Barton and Mayer were working together, holding up pretty well, but the brawl did not last long. Black-clad SHIELD agents were suddenly swarming through the door and windows, brandishing weapons.

Tarif's hands were at Barton's throat, and he clutched the man's wrists, gasping for air. Heavy boots shook the wood floor, then, suddenly, Barton could breathe again.

He sat up, coughing. He could hear the scuffling sounds of the tac teams trying to subdue Tarif, but, for the moment, he simply leaned against the wall, catching his breath.

Gradually, the noise subsided.

Barton looked up.

Tarif was on his feet, surrounded by dozens of SHIELD agents, all of whom were either physically restraining him or pointing their guns warningly at him. Tarif's wrists were cuffed behind him, and he was glaring sullenly at Barton.

Relief passed briefly through Barton, but he couldn't relax yet. Tarif may have been secured, but Barton couldn't be completely at ease until he was behind bars. And there was something else, too—something he needed to see and hear and feel before he was satisfied.

Barton got to his feet, fixing Tarif with a fierce stare.

"Where is she?"

Tarif met his gaze but didn't respond.

Barton crossed the room in a few deft strides and grabbed the man's shirt front. "I said where is she, dammit!" he snarled, fury and fear buzzing through him.

Tarif smiled.

Barton shoved the man away from him, disgusted. "Screw you," he growled. "I'll find her myself.

And he darted down the dark hallway.


	25. TRANSPARENT

Barton ran through the cabin, glancing into every room for some sign of his partner. The house was dark, but he didn't bother to stop and turn on every light, opting instead to flash his penlight briefly into every room he passed. His heart was pounding, and anxiety was building; it felt like he was moving in slow-motion.

So, although the cabin was small, it felt like hours before he opened a door and the beam of his light fell on a mass of red hair.

Barton's breath caught in his throat. He flipped the lightswitch.

Yellowish light flooded the room, revealing Natasha Romanoff curled up on the floor.

Barton ran to her, dropping to his knees at her side. Her eyes were closed, and she was so still and pale. She was lying on her right side with her arms twisted behind her back and her ankles bound together. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises were scattered across her body; likely she had fought Tarif, or else he had handled her roughly. Probably both.

"Natasha," Barton gasped, fighting the panic that was rising in his throat. "Nat!" Her hair was lying across her face, and he brushed it aside, exposing her neck. He pressed two fingers to her jugular vein. _Don't be dead, don't be dead…_

Her pulse thrummed against his fingertips, steady and strong.

Barton sagged with relief. His head was still spinning, and he tried to calm himself, analyze the situation, decide what to do next.

"C'mon, Nat," he muttered. "Wake up." He slapped the side of her face, but she didn't react.

Barton moved down to her legs and whipped out his knife. He slit her bonds with a flick of his wrist, then moved to her hands.

The rope was loose around her wrists; it was clear that she'd been working at it. Barton slipped it off, his mind buzzing with questions. If she'd managed to loosen her bonds this much, why hadn't she finished freeing herself? Why was she unconscious?

He eased her carefully onto her back, taking account of the cuts and scrapes scattered sparsely across her face: There was a cut on her brow, another on her cheekbone, a third marring the corner of her lower lip, black with blood. He wondered vaguely what other injuries she had sustained—hopefully nothing internal, hopefully no head injuries. Hopefully nothing serious.

He bent over her face and cupped her cheek in one hand. Her skin was cold.

"Natasha," Barton said. "Natasha—wake up. C'mon."

His thumb rubbed the space under her eye. She felt so cold—the cabin was chilly, and she was lying on the hardwood floor, not to mention the tiny dress she was still wearing. Barton leaned down and pressed his cheek against hers, hoping that the warmth would rouse her.

She made a noise then, perhaps a word or a sigh, softer than a whisper; he only heard it because his ear was right next to her mouth.

Eagerly, he drew back, studying her face for signs of movement.

"What'd you say, Tasha?" he said hopefully.

Natasha's brows dipped into a frown. She muttered something that sounded like _hullodny,_ and, after a moment, he recognized the Russian word.

"Cold?" he repeated. "Yeah, I bet you are. Sorry about that." He moved his hand quickly up and down the length of her arm, watching her face expectantly. "You're gonna be just fine," he added, settling his hand on the other side of her.

Natasha's eyelids fluttered. Her eyes slid open just a crack, and relief washed through him.

"Hey," he said gently, tilting his head as he searched her face. "How are you feeling?"

Natasha blinked slowly, but still only slits of her eyes were visible.

"You're safe now, you're gonna be okay," Barton repeated.

Natasha frowned again. "Clint?" she mumbled.

"Yeah," Barton said. He cracked a smile. "Yeah, I'm here."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Natasha's lips, and Barton laughed, a relieved and delighted sound. "Hey," he said again, still grinning idiotically. She was okay, she was smiling, and she'd called him by his first name—a rare occurrence.

Natasha grimaced a little. "Hurts," she murmured, and he bent anxiously over her.

"Where? Tell me where it hurts, Tasha."

Natasha closed her eyes again. "Wrists," she slurred. "Ankles… _rot…"_

Barton frowned. _Mouth._ She'd switched to Russian again, apparently without realizing it. Maybe she _did_ have a head injury. Or… Another option clicked in Barton's mind. She'd probably been drugged. That would also explain why she'd passed out before escaping her restraints.

" _Golava,"_ Natasha finished. _Head._

"Your head hurts?" Barton asked.

"Mmm."

Barton pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Can you move your arms and legs?"

She did so.

Pain in her head could point to any number of things. It could be a headache resulting from the drugs, or perhaps Tarif had hit her in the head.

"Tasha," he began. "Do you remember—?"

Suddenly Natasha gasped, and her eyes shot open. She lurched up off the floor and caught him by the arms, staring at him with panic in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Barton asked quickly, apprehension rising.

Natasha's brows furrowed; she seemed to be struggling to communicate.

At last she managed one word:

"Ghoul."

Barton blinked. "What?"

Natasha was trying to sit up, fear etched across her features, and Barton easily pushed her down again.

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy," he said. "Did you say 'ghoul'?"

Natasha's eyes were wide as she gazed up at him.

Then she nodded.

"Ghoul," she whispered.

Barton's scalp prickled, and he glanced nervously over his shoulder. The door was standing open, revealing the pitch-black hallway beyond.

"Where?" he asked, turning back to her.

She closed her eyes. " _Zdes,"_ she said. _Here._ "In this house—everywhere—"

A chill ran down Barton's spine. From the moment he'd walked in, he'd thought there was something eerie about this place. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if it was haunted…

 _Snap out of it,_ he chided himself. _There's no such thing as ghosts._

Natasha was probably hallucinating. She'd been drugged, she was confused and agitated, she kept switching between English and Russian…

And that was when it hit him.

Natasha wasn't talking about ghosts at all.

She wasn't saying the English word _ghoul._

She was saying the Russian word _gul._

As in, 'boom'.

Barton's chest constricted. He picked up Natasha and ran out of the room.

His heart was pounding as he sped down the halls, and his mind was racing. _Of course—_ why hadn't he seen it? Tarif had done this before. He had drawn them all in in order to kill as many of them as possible. That was why it had been so easy to get there, that was why it had been so easy to take him down.

Tarif wasn't using Natasha as leverage at all.

He was using her as bait.

Barton burst into the kitchen. The other agents looked up in surprise.

"Get out, get out, get clear!" Barton shouted, running for the door. "This place could blow any second!"

Instantly, all was chaos.

Barton could hear agents running around, trying to get to the door, shouting to each other, helping those who were wounded. They started flooding through the front door, and Barton followed as fast as he could. His priority was to get Natasha as far away from the structure as possible.

He charged through the door and began sprinting away from the cabin. Tarif must have assumed that he would be going down with them, so he wouldn't have skimped on power—the explosion was sure to be colossal. He wasn't sure they would be clear in time.

Water splashed under his boots—he had run directly into the sound. He kept running, not stopping until he was in up to his armpits. At this point, he paused, trying to see Natasha's face in the faint whitish moonlight.

"Take a deep breath," he ordered.

She obeyed, and he clamped a hand over her nose and mouth.

At that moment, the building exploded.

Heat seared the back or Barton's head, and the noise was deafening. He took in a big breath and sunk beneath the surface—

—and the heat and the noise vanished. He was floating through dark, cool waves, swimming further from the shore. He could feel the low rumble of the explosion, and orange light flickered through the water from the direction of the shore.

He kicked off his heavy boots, and his feet found the ocean floor. Based on the pressure in his ears, the surface was a few yards over his head. It was so peaceful down here.

Natasha was squirming frantically, trying to get free, but he kept his hand pressed firmly to her nose and mouth and his free arm around her waist, pinning her back to his chest.

Orange, glowing objects began hurtling past the surface like shooting stars, casting flickering lights onto the ocean floor. Fiery debris—it wasn't safe to resurface yet. Barton waited, watching the lights speed by, illuminating the water around them.

Debris finally stopped flying past, and Barton judged it was safe again. He kicked off the ocean floor, gliding up toward the air.

Their heads broke the surface within seconds, and they both gasped for breath. Barton's eyes locked onto the shore, and dread welled up in his chest. He'd been right about the explosion—it had been huge. Low flames were playing around what remained of the cabin, and much of the forest near the cabin had been wiped out as well.

How many agents had been lost?

With one arm still around Natasha's waist, Barton used his free arm to paddle towards the shore. It wasn't long before his feet touched the ocean floor, and he kept walking through the water, searching the dark shoreline for movement.

When the water had receded to his elbows, Natasha started to slide from his grasp, so he turned her to face him, using his hands to make a seat for her. Immediately her arms went around his shoulders, her legs locked around his waist, and she buried her face in the side of his neck. Barton smiled a little but didn't speak.

Cold breezes chilled him as he trudged up onto the shore. Natasha shivered against his chest, and he frowned, thinking of her bare back and legs. "Cold?"

Apparently too weary to speak, she merely sighed, hot against his neck. He could feel goosebumps where her breath had been—the only spot on his body which was no longer cold.

A figure was running toward them across the beach—Rapp. He came to a stop in front of them.

"She okay?"

"I think so."

SHIELD agents were starting to emerge from the water around them, and a few trickled out of the wood.

Rapp swivelled his head again, surveying the renewed activity on the beach.

"How many did we lost?" Barton asked.

Rapp shrugged. "No idea."

Barton gritted his teeth. He couldn't help feeling that he was partly to blame for any casualties—after all, he'd been tracing Tarif for months. He should recognize the man's methods by now.

"I'm gonna find out how much damage was done," Rapp said. "You stay with her. I just hope we didn't lose Tarif."

He pivoted and jogged toward a pair of operatives who were crawling out of the water.

Natasha stirred. "Clint," she mumbled.

"Mhm."

Natasha pushed herself up facing him, her legs tightening around his waist. Her eyes were closed, and her drenched hair was streaming around her shoulders. Barton tried not to think about the wet, clingy dress she was wearing. Or the way she looked in the moonlight. Or where his hands were positioned.

"Where's my gun," Natasha slurred.

Barton blinked. "Your—Oh, your gun?" He tried to think. "Oh—you didn't bring one."

Natasha frowned and opened her eyes, looking confused and disgusted.

Barton laughed softly at her expression—she never went anywhere without a gun, and he knew she found it hard to relax without one.

"Here," he offered, fumbling with his holster. "Take my spare." He passed her his backup pistol, and she wrapped her arms around his neck again, clutching the firearm in her hands.

Little waves were rolling around Barton's ankles, and he moved further away from the Sound. His gaze roved to the partially-demolished forest, and he wondered whether the vans were still intact.

It didn't really matter, though—they could always find some other way back to HQ.

The only thing that really mattered right now was safe in his arms.

* * *

Another of my very favorite chapters!

We're in the home stretch - hope you're enjoying! :)


	26. RECOVER

Barton was in the SHIELD medical unit, sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. Sunlight filtered through the windows, but Natasha was asleep, surrounded by whirring and beeping monitors.

Barton's eyes were on the book in his lap, but his attention was caught when she stirred, inhaling slowly through her nose. Her eyes were screwed shut, and she raised a fist, pressing her wrist to her temple.

Barton smiled and laid his book aside.

"You're not supposed to be awake yet."

Natasha opened her eyes and looked at him.

Barton waited for a moment as her gaze scanned the room, allowing her to get her bearings.

"The medical room setup is just a precaution," he said at length. "They just want to monitor you till the drugs are totally out of your system. Doc said it should take around twenty-four hours." He continued to ramble on for a moment, thinking that the sound of his voice might calm her. Hers certainly calmed him when he was in medical. "It's been twelve, so if you feel a little crappy, that's why. Once you finish sleeping it off, you'll be back to a hundred percent. They said there shouldn't be any long-lasting side effects."

Natasha was silent for a moment.

"What happened?" she murmured at last, her eyes searching his. Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but Barton was relieved to find that she sounded otherwise normal.

He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands loosely between his legs. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Natasha closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temple. Barton wondered if she had a headache. "I was fighting Rapp in his room," she mumbled. "And he must have knocked me out. Next thing I remember, I was tied up somewhere—I could hear water, so it must have been near the ocean."

Natasha scowled. "Tarif was there, and he told me he was going to blow up the cabin. Then he injected me with something and left. The last thing I remember is trying to get free from the ropes, and then I guess the drug kicked in."

Barton nodded slowly. Then he stopped, frowning. "So, you don't remember when Rapp and I got there?"

Her brow creased. "What?"

Barton didn't answer right away. The doctor had told him that the drug she'd been injected with often caused amnesia, so he calmed his anxiety and merely smiled.

"Guess you have a lot to catch up on," he said, and then he started filling her in, telling her about everything that had happened—about Tarif's ominous phone call, the gunfight in the cabin, finding her on the floor, and how she had saved their lives by warning them about the explosion.

When he finished, she was quiet for a moment, thinking. At last, she said, "How many did we lose in the explosion?"

Barton dropped scowling eyes to his lap. "Three," he muttered. "Gavin Mitchell, Cameron Zhu, and Drew Miller. Mitchell had a family, and Zhu was married. Their families have already been informed. There's gonna be a memorial service on Sunday."

Natasha remained quiet. Then she pushed herself up so she was sitting in a more upright position.

"You're blaming yourself for this, aren't you?"

Barton glared at the floor.

Natasha sighed. "It's not your fault."

"Tarif's pulled that explosion stunt hundreds of times," Barton burst out, lifting his head. "I don't know _why_ I didn't see it coming."

"None of us did," Natasha said.

"I know, but—" Barton exhaled, massaging his forehead. There was a short pause.

"Barton," Natasha said. "Just stop."

Barton looked up. She was gazing intently at him, and he found that he couldn't look away.

"Whenever there are casualties, you always blame yourself," Natasha said. "You've got to stop beating yourself up. I know you did everything you could; you always do. This isn't your fault."

Barton scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"I know you're you're right," he mumbled. "It's just—it's hard. You know? It's always hard."

"I know," Natasha said softly.

Barton took a long, slow breath.

"Just… try not to focus so much on the lives you _could_ have saved," Natasha went on. "Focus on the lives you _did_ save."

Barton nodded.

"Mine, for example," Natasha added.

Barton looked at her. She was avoiding his gaze as she picked at her bedspread.

"I guess I never did thank you for that," she murmured.

At that moment, the door opened.

"Okay if we come in?" Rapp's voice asked.

Barton's heart sank. He had the distinct impression that something important had just been interrupted, but he hid his disappointment behind a friendly smile as he welcomed them in.

"Hey," Rapp said, as he and Kennedy approached the bed. "Just thought we'd check in before we head out."

"Out?" Barton repeated. "You mean…?"

"Yeah." Rapp adjusted the strap of his duffel bag. "Back to Virginia."

Natasha frowned. "You're leaving?"

Rapp shrugged and nodded. "Yep. We completed out objective—Tarif's in custody now, thanks to your guys' help. We're transporting him to our base in Langley."

Kennedy started talking to Natasha, asking after her health, and Rapp took a step closer to Barton.

"Listen, Barton. I just wanted to say that it was a pleasure working with you, and I have a lot of respect for you. Here's hoping we run into each other again sometime." He extended his hand.

Barton shook it warmly. "Best of luck to you, Rapp."

"Same to you." Rapp smiled, then turned away and moved toward Natasha while Kennedy approached Barton.

"Goodbye, Clint," she said, giving him a small smile. "It was great working with you, and…" She glanced toward Natasha, who was talking to Rapp, and lowered her voice. "Good luck with Natasha."

Barton blinked in surprise. "How did you—?"

Kennedy just grinned. Then she leaned forward and gave him a hug.

Barton hugged her back, a smile spreading across his face. He supposed it shouldn't surprise him—he'd always known that she was perceptive.

At last, he drew back, still grinning. "Well, uh… thanks," he said sheepishly.

Kennedy winked. "Hang in there, Barton." She gave his shoulder a quick squeeze.

Barton glanced at Natasha and found that she was watching him with a strange look on her face. As soon as they made eye contact, she looked away.

Kennedy joined Rapp by the door. "Well, we should be going," she said, glancing up at him.

Rapp smiled at them and raised a hand in farewell. "See you later Barton, Romanoff."

"I hope we have the pleasure of working with you again," Kennedy said.

They left.

Barton flopped back into his chair, feeling a curious mixture of sadness and relief. Much as he liked Rapp and Kennedy, he rather hoped that, without them around, things would finally return to normal.

So far, he and Natasha seemed to have reached a silent agreement not to discuss any of what had been going on between them before she'd been captured—his profession of undying love for her, for example. And it was nice, pretending that nothing unusual had happened. But Barton couldn't help wondering how long this facade could really last. How long it would be before real life came screaming back, with all its tension and intricacies and awkwardness.

"I'm gonna miss them."

Natasha's voice intruded on his thoughts. He looked up and smiled.

"Yeah," he said. "Me too."

Natasha's brow wrinkled slightly, and she rolled her head over on the pillow. The movement reminded Barton of her possible headache.

"Hey, how are you feeling, by the way?" he asked, scooting his chair a little closer. "Looks like Tarif really laid into you."

Natasha carefully prodded the cut on her lip. "Still a little sore," she admitted. "Little bit of a headache, too."

"Honestly, get some more sleep," he advised. "Once you've finished sleeping it off, you'll feel better."

Natasha exhaled and pulled the covers up to her chin, closing her eyes. Barton pulled out his book and continued reading as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Bit of a filler - this was used to be longer, but I ended up cutting a lot of it.

Just a few more!


	27. GOOD MORNING

Romanoff opened her eyes.

She was lying in her own bed in her own apartment with the blankets tucked snugly around her, warm and contented. The house was clean and quiet, and the windows were lit with cheerful sunlight. Her mind felt peacefully blank, and she tried to grasp a clear memory.

 _Oh, right—_ she'd woken in medical to find Clint smiling down at her. Humming under his breath while he read his book. Asking her how she felt, his forehead wrinkled with concern.

Romanoff eased herself into a sitting position, the covers pooling in her lap. Her headache was gone, she felt relaxed and refreshed. The soreness had vanished from her cuts and ligature wounds. If she had to guess, her condition had improved enough that she'd been moved out of Medical.

Romanoff stretched, arching her back and flexing her wrists behind her head. Then she twitched the covers aside and slid out of bed.

 _What day is it?_

She wandered into the kitchen and glanced at the clock. It was nine in the morning.

Romanoff scratched the back of her head. She was still a little blurry on how she'd ended up here—she had made a guess, but she needed Clint to fill in the blanks. She had ust decided to text him when she detected a faint rumbling noise coming from the living room.

Romanoff frowned, cocking her ear towards the sound. She began edging warily toward the room, craning her neck to see around the corner.

When she stepped into the room, a grin stretched across her face.

Clint Barton was facedown on her couch with a blanket pulled over his head, snoring like his life depended on it. His left arms was hanging down onto the floor, and both his bare feet were sticking out over the armrest.

Smothering a laugh, Romanoff tiptoed into the room. She stopped at the foot of the couch and ran her fingertip lightly up his bare sole.

An unholy yelp sounded from under the blanket as Clint's feet jerked back to safety.

" _Naaat,"_ he complained.

Impish laughter tumbled out of Romanoff's lips. Delighted by her success, she moved towards his head and sat down on the edge of the couch next to him.

"Get up," she ordered, poking him in the back.

"Don't want to." His voice was muffled by the covers.

The blanket was tucked around his head and shoulders, and Romanoff started tugging at it.

"Tasha," Clint whined. "Cut it out!" His free hand batted blindly at her, and she let out a devilish little chuckle. She yanked harder at the blanket, and her efforts were rewarded when the back of Clint's tousled head appeared.

"Rise and shine, lazy-ass," Romanoff singsonged.

Clint groaned and pressed his face deeper into the cushion. "I hate mornings."

Romanoff laughed again and pulled on his shoulder. "Alright, get up. C'mon."

Clint squirmed, grumbling under his breath.

"Come _on,_ Clint!" She tugged playfully at his shoulder again.

"Alright, alright!" he muttered. He eased grudgingly onto his back, scowling.

But when he saw her bending over him, grinning mischievously down at him, his expression changed. A crooked little half-smile erased his frown as his eyes searched her face.

"Mornin', partner," he drawled.

Romanoff couldn't stop smiling at him. Sleepy Clint was just so adorable—his eyes were puffy, his hair stuck straight up, his voice was low and rumbly, and the linear print of her sofa was tattooed onto his cheek. He was winking and blinking in the sunlight, smiling lopsidedly up at her, eyes crinkled up at the corners.

Something warm was blossoming inside Romanoff's chest. She loved him so much, it took her breath away. She wanted to run her fingers through his messy hair, kiss that crooked smile of his…

Her hair brushed the side of his chin. Romanoff drew back and tucked it behind her ear, slightly embarrassed. She hadn't realized she was leaning so close to him.

Clint's eyes were rather big, and he gave her a slightly nervous smile.

"So—how exactly did I get here?" Romanoff asked, trying to cover the awkward moment.

Clint blinked. "Get… here? Oh! Oh, yeah, um… right." He cleared his throat and tucked his hands behind his head, giving her a close-up view of his impressive biceps. "So, you were released from medical twelve hours ago. They were just waiting till the drug was completely gone, and it took twenty-four hours."

Romanoff shifted, turning herself towards him a little more and resting her hand on the other side of him. Clint cleared his throat again.

"So anyways," he went on. "Um… so after the drug was totally out of your system, you still didn't wake up. Kinda freaked me out a little, but doc said it was normal. So I knew you'd rather be at home than at Medical, but I figured if you woke up and no one was here, you'd wonder what the hell was going on. So I figured I'd spend the night here so I could explain things." He peered up at he, his gaze searching. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel great," Romanoff said.

"Okay, good," said Clint. There was a short silence.

"Well, uh…" He stirred. "...I guess I should get going."

"No, no, stay," Romanoff said quickly. "You can eat breakfast here. I may not have many groceries since we've been away, but I think I can dig something up."

"Okay," Clint said, grinning. "Sounds good."

Romanoff's arm was still stretched across his chest, and he nudged it. "Okay… let me up."

Romanoff stood and took a step back. Clint sat up and let the covers fall off of him, and it hit Romanoff for the first time that he wasn't wearing a shirt. She tried hard not to stare at his muscular torso.

Clint was frowning and rummaging through the couch for his phone.

"Well," Romanoff said awkwardly. "I'll, uh… I'll put some coffee on.

She turned and hurried from the room.

 _Focus,_ she chided herself. _Just… be friendly. Get things back to the way they were before. He has a girlfriend, and he thinks of you as a friend. You've got to quit ogling him._

The coffee finished brewing and its warm, tempting scent brought Barton shuffling into the kitchen, rubbing his head tiredly. The happy, contented feeling started glowing in her chest again. Because, sure, loving him was hopeless. But she still loved him. And he was here, and he was safe, and he was smiling at her like there was no other face in the world he'd rather be looking at.

Romanoff grinned back as he got out two mugs.

"You're in a good mood this morning," he commented, pouring the coffee.

Romanoff raised her eyebrows. "Am I usually in a bad mood?"

"No," he said thoughtfully. "You're just usually not this… smiley." The corner of his mouth lifted, and he took a drink.

Romanoff found that she was smiling again and tried to stop. But how could she _not_ smile when Cling was standing right next to her? And drinking coffee while wearing a tshirt that said 'it's coffee o'clock'?

"I guess…" Romanoff thought for a moment. "I guess this just feels like a fresh start. I mean, I'm finally home, we got the guy we've been chasing, and it's a beautiful day." _And you're here._

"Well, I'm glad you're smiley," Clint told her. "Stay smiley."

He led the way to the table, and they sat down across from each other.

"We going to HQ today?" Romanoff asked, holding her mug to her lips.

Clint sighed and nodded. "Coulson wants mission reports from our last job by tonight. I guess he's synching them with CIA or something, so we can't procrastinate this time."

Romanoff twisted her mouth to one side. "Okay. Well, after this, I'm not setting foot in that place for at least a week. I'm ready for a break."

"Word."

The clock counted out a peaceful half-minute devoid of talking, filled instead with silent thoughts, warm sips, shared smiles, and the smell of coffee. Unlike the tense, uncomfortable silences they had become accustomed to, this silence was calm and comfortable. A step in the right direction.

Then Clint pushed his chair back and stood up.

"Alright, Widow," he said. "Let's see what we can find in that fridge of yours."

Romanoff grinned and followed him into the kitchen.

* * *

Another of my absolute favorite chapters, along with 12 and 25. We're almost done!


	28. IN CONCLUSION

Romanoff and Clint were walking briskly through the high-ceilinged lobby of SHIELD headquarters. Busy, suit-clad agents milled around them as they headed towards the hallways, sunlight glowing through the glass wall.

Romanoff was walking on Clint's right and a little behind him, so close that she could feel his body heat, so close that she could hear him breathing. She kept glancing up at his profile, noticing how he constantly swivelled his head around as he walked, always on the alert. Noticing how he smiled and nodded politely to every agent who passed them.

Noticing how their arms brushed together as they walked.

Clint had a long, quick stride, and Romanoff had to hurry to keep up with him. They were walking down the hall now, and the elevators were in sight ahead of them.

Abruptly Clint turned, heading down a wide hallway to their left.

"Wh—?" Romanoff hesitated for a split second then hurried her steps, hanging close behind his elbow. She looked quizzically up at him.

"That's not the way to the report office."

Clint smiled, eyes straight ahead. "I know."

Romanoff grinned back, searching what little she could see of his face. "So where are we going?"

Clint didn't break his stride as they turned a corner. "Cafeteria."

"You really expect there to be any food left at eleven?" Romanoff asked. And then, "Wait. Is _that_ why you're walking so fast?"

Clint's grin widened.

Romanoff shoved him with her shoulder. "Screw you. And here I thought you were trying to be on time for once.

"I'm just afraid all of it will be gone," Clint said.

"All of what?"

Clint raised his eyebrows and peered at her out of the corner of his eye. "The coffee."

Romanoff rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and shook her head, smiling. "Barton. You just had coffee."

"You can't have too much coffee, Widow."

Romanoff started laughing. Clint finally turned his head and grinned down at her, his eyes sparkling with delight. She saw his gaze flick down to the healing cut on her mouth, then he quickly looked forward again.

"So does Coulson need these reports right away?" Romanoff asked, as they neared the cafeteria.

"By this afternoon," Clint replied. "Like I said, CIA wants a copy. Rapp and Kennedy probably have to do them, too."

A pain lanced through Romanoff's chest at the mention of Kennedy. Her mind flashed to the last time she'd seen her—in Medical, just before she and Rapp had left SHIELD. She herself had been talking to Rapp, but she'd been watching Kennedy and Clint in her peripheral vision. And before they'd hugged, she was sure she'd seen Kennedy whisper something in Clint's ear. And, afterwards, she had winked at him.

Romanoff bit her lip, guilt clenching her chest. She knew she should be happy for Clint. And she was trying to, but it was nearly impossible. Still, even if she couldn't _feel_ happy for him, she should at least be outwardly supportive, as Rapp had suggested. She resolved to try to be more encouraging towards him.

They had reached the cafeteria. It was fairly crowded, and Clint and Romanoff moved through the room towards the drink dispensers.

"You know, it's really too bad that Rapp and Kennedy had to leave," Romanoff said cautiously.

Clint nodded. "Yeah."

Romanoff paused. "It must have been hard for you to see them go. Kennedy especially."

Clint laughed a little. "Yeah, I guess so," he said. "I mean, I guess we kind of, you know. Bonded."

"Yeah…" _That's one way of putting it._

They had reached the drink dispensers. Another agent was pouring himself some coffee, so Clint and Romanoff stood back a moment.

Romanoff turned abruptly to Clint. "You know, I never did congratulate you about that," she said. She feigned a smile.

Clint was looking at the cut on her mouth again. "Oh yeah… thanks," he said vaguely.

Romanoff nodded, and they both looked forward again.

The other agent left, and Clint stepped forward and filled a mug with the steaming beverage.

He was just raising the cup to his lips when he stopped and turned to her, a strange look on his face. "Wait. Congratulate me for what?"

A little uncomfortable, Romanoff turned and leaned her back against the counter, gazing purposefully at the wall opposite. "You know. About you and Kennedy."

"What about me and Kennedy?"

Romanoff smiled wryly and turned to him. He was watching her with his forehead creased, looking utterly bewildered.

"You don't have to play dumb, Barton. I already know about it."

Clint frowned again. "Know about what?" he asked. He took a sip of coffee.

Romanoff forced another half-smile. "I overheard your conversation with Pepper, remember?"

Clint came dangerously close to spitting out his coffee. He turned and ducked his head, setting his mug carefully on the counter. Then he stepped quite close to her and dropped his voice, rather pink in the face.

"Yes, Nat, I do remember that," he said. His voice was hard to distinguish unver the hum of conversation in the room. "I don't see what that has to do with this conversation though."

"Because," Romanoff said, starting to flush a little herself. "We were just talking about you and Kennedy."

"Me and—" Clint froze. He raised his head to the ceiling, and a most curious expression crossed his face. He half-laughed, ran a hand through his hair, then lowered his head again, his eyes locking with hers. "Nat, uh… you _do_ know that phone call wasn't about _Kennedy._ Right?"

Romanoff frowned. "Yes it was."

"No it wasn't." Clint's blush had spread to the roots of his hair.

Romanoff's frown deepened. "But you said… you were going to talk to her _right away._ And then I saw you sitting with Kennedy."

"Yeah, because she was upset, so I stopped to talk to her."

Romanoff's heartbeat was quickening. "But you said—"

"Nat," he interrupted. "Kennedy's married."

Romanoff froze.

"Do you really think I'd—?"

"Of course not," Romanoff cut in. "I just, I…" She dropped her head. "I didn't know that."

"Yep," Clint said. Romanoff could feel him studying her, but she didn't look up.

"Wait, so… all this time, whenever I started to talk about my—about my feelings… you thought I was talking about Kennedy?"

Romanoff nodded.

Clint let out an embarrassed laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. "Wow, this is awkward."

Romanoff didn't answer. Her heart was beating fast and blood was rushing to her head, making her feel dizzy.

Clint stepped close to her again and lowered his voice, a shy half-smile crossing his face. "Nat, I was talking about you."

She stared at the floor, uncomprehending. He was talking about her. About _her,_ Natasha Romanoff. And he had been since the beginning.

 _I'm in love with her,_ he'd said.

 _I don't know how to explain it—she's driving me distracted._

 _I can't help how I feel, Nat. I've never felt this way before. About anyone._

And suddenly she couldn't breathe. Blood pounded in her ears, her head was hot, and it felt like the loud, oppressive crowd in the room was growing, crushing her. She wanted to leave, to think this through, but Clint's gaze was fastened on her, locking her in place. She could only stare at the floor, her whole body flushing warm.

"Nat?" She barely caught his whisper over the noise in the room.

"Hey, Barton, Romanoff!" George Mayer suddenly traipsed up beside them. He grabbed a mug and started filling it with coffee. "Some job Thursday night, huh?"

"Some job," Clint said, without taking his eyes off her.

"You hear we have to do double reports on that op?" Mayer went on obliviously.

Clint turned to face him, and Romanoff immediately headed for the door. Her head was spinning; she needed to get away.

She had barely reached the exit when Clint caught her wrist. "Nat, wait."

She tugged her arm away and quickened her steps down the hall. Agents were still tramping down the hallway, talking loudly. Her ears were ringing. She had to escape all the noise.

Clint's hand found her elbow, and he fell into step beside her. "Nat, please just listen to me for a second," he began, but she ignored his anxious, pleading tone and jerked away, jogging down the hall a ways. She heard him say her name again, but she couldn't talk to him yet, not until her heart had stopped racing, her insides had stopped twisting, adrenaline had stopped shooting through her. Not until she was sure of herself and knew what she was doing.

An open door presented itself to her, and she stumbled into the empty office. She caught the table and leaned onto her palms, gasping, trying to catch her breath, trying to calm herself.

"Nat!" Clint had come in behind her, and she heard the door close. He sounded distressed and agitated. "Nat, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I know you didn't want to hear that, and I know you wish I'd leave you alone. I'm sorry I feel this way, I'm such an idiot, and I'd stop it if I could, but I can't. I love you, Nat. I love you so damn much, it hurts. And I know you probably hate me for saying that, but I had to say it. I'm so sorry about this whole mess, I'm sorry for loving you, I'm sorry I'm such an idiot. And I know this is awkward cause you don't feel the same way, but I just… I just hope this doesn't ruin our friendship."

Something warm was glowing inside Romanoff's chest. She was finally starting to wrap her mind around what he was saying. He was in love with her, just like she was in love with him. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to contain the happiness that was rising inside her.

She heard Clint sigh. "I'm sorry, Natasha," he said quietly. "I'll leave you alone now." She heard his footsteps move toward the door.

"Wait."

He halted.

Once she had composed herself somewhat, she turned slowly to face him. He was standing several feet away, watching her, his face an even blend of despair and hope.

"Clint," she said softly. She wanted to say something more, but she didn't know what. Euphoria was welling up inside her, and she heard herself laugh. A light broke across Clint's face; he peered hopefully at her.

Natasha laughed again, then rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck. She felt him sigh as his strong arms pulled her close, lifting her off the floor a little. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her nose in his shoulder, breathing him in.

It had been a long journey to get to this moment, but they were finally here.

At last, Romanoff loosened her hold on him, and he settled her onto the floor again.

He grinned down at her. "Okay, cool, um… that's, good. You kinda had me scared there for a minute; I mean, I told you how I felt and you just kinda looked away and didn't really say anything for a while; I thought you totally hated me or something—"

Romanoff tilted her head.

Clint stopped rambling. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm waiting for you to stop talking so I can kiss you."

"Oh." Clint's eyes flicked downward, and it struck her for the first time that he hadn't been looking at her cut. "Did you want to do that?"

"Was planning on it."

"Oh, yeah, I just meant because, um, I mean it looks a lot better, but I know you did get your mouth walloped the other day, so I wasn't sure if—"

"Clint," Natasha said, smiling. "Just shut up and kiss me already."

"If you insist," Clint said, eagerly fitting his mouth over hers.

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Hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned for one final bonus chapter.


	29. -BONUS-

Natasha stepped into the report office and smiled. Clint was sitting with his back to the door, muttering to himself as his pen traveled across the paper in front of him. She walked quietly up behind him and dragged her fingernails up the back of his neck.

Clint exhaled and dropped his head forward, allowing her to run her fingers up into his hairline and across his scalp. His pen slid from his grip and he held very still.

Natasha's grin widened, and she flicked the back of his head.

"Ouch," Clint complained. He dropped his head back and smiled up at her.

She smiled back, gripping the sides of his chair. "What are you up to?"

"Apparently after I did those reports last week, Coulson decided it was a good time to cash in some others I forgot to do a while back."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Slacker."

"Hey, don't act like you always get yours in on time," Clint returned. "Coulson's probably just waiting for the right moment to spring them on you.

Natasha smirked down at him. "Good to know. I'll stay out of his way."

Suddenly, Clint's fingers slipped under the hair at the back of her head, and he pulled her down and kissed her. Natasha made a noise of surprise in her throat, then kissed him back.

Finally, she pulled away, smiling and slightly breathless. "Thought we agreed to keep things professional in the workplace."

"Then stop smirking at me like that in the workplace," he said playfully.

Natasha chuckled and straightened up, walking around his chair to lean back against the table, arms folded. "Hey, by the way, what's the latest on the Tarif situation?" Clint asked more seriously. "Have they reached a verdict yet?"

"Not yet," she replied. "Word is the World Security Council's getting involved. Tarif's an international target, so Langley's got the Council up their asses trying to get custody." She shrugged. "That's all I know. I'm not following it too closely; in my mind, it's a done deal. We did our part, now it's time to move on and let the corporate bigwigs handle the rest… Why are you smiling?"

"Nothing," Clint said. "I just…" He paused, and gave her the special smile he reserved just for her. "I'm so in love with you, it's ridiculous."

Natasha smiled and uncrossed her arms. "Get over here, you."

Slowly, Clint stood up and took a step toward her. "Thought we agreed to keep things professional in the workplace."

Natasha's smile grew. "Shut up, you moron, or I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" he cut in. He chuckled as he stopped in front of her, taking her by the waist and resting his forehead against hers.

Natasha smirked, resting her hands on his collarbones. "Sure you want me to finish that sentence?"

"Agent Romanoff?"

At Coulson's voice from the doorway, Clint jumped away from Natasha. He hurriedly returned to his seat as Natasha smoothed her blouse.

"There you are," Coulson said, walking into the room. His eyes flicked briefly between the two of them, but he didn't comment. "You know, it's lucky you're already in here, because I have a job for you." He passed her a stack of folders.

Natasha frowned. "What are these?"

"Old mission files," Coulson said happily. "Turns out there are some from a while back you forgot to turn in reports on. I just figured since you're already here, now would be a good time to do those."

Natasha carefully avoided looking at Clint. She forced a smile.

"Be happy to."

"Great," Coulson said. "I'll expect those back by the end of the day." He turned and strolled out of the room.

Natasha turned to Clint, who was beaming at her. "Go ahead, gloat all you want."

"Oh, I will," Clint said gleefully. "You better believe I will. Join me at the slammer table, sweetheart, cause you've got some report filing to do!"

"Shut up, Clint," Natasha said through his laughter. She rolled her eyes, shaking his head as she joined him at the desk.

* * *

I'd love to hear your final thoughts on this! And thanks so much for reading. :)


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